The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Sometimes, to help someone you wind up hurting them. Waylon Smithers has spent his life in the lithe shadow of C. M. Burns. While Smithers is mostly happy with that, Burns is not. Burns wants an equal, a peer. He's willing to send Smithers away, and give him a chance to become such. Will Smithers return, or has Burns single-handedly destroyed what fragile relationship they had?
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

* * *

 _Cover art has been created and provided courtesy of Very H Moon, my wonderful friend who has read so many rough drafts, and given me honest opinions on my writing; and is a great artist as well._ _Thankyou, Very H Moon, for all you've done **.**_

* * *

 _This story that takes place as part of a larger piece I starting working on last summer. After nearly six months, this winter I "killed my darlings" as they say, and broke a tale I'd called_ The Unfolding Of Waylon Smithers _into many scattered ideas across several notebooks. What can I say? In writing, just because the author likes it doesn't make it "good." I am fortunate to have some fantastic beta-readers across the internet who are not afraid to tell me what they_ really _think. I appreciate their candor. It's made all these pieces so much better_

 _I am also fortunate enough that I don't get overly attached to my rough drafts. I'm not afraid to cut them apart, and rewrite them._ Unfolding _came apart into several little pieces that I fiddled with and fine-tuned._

 _One such piece grew up to be "_ Nuclear Attraction _," the tale of Waylon Smithers Sr and his relationship with C. Montgomery Burns. I'm very proud of it._

 _Another became "_ Winter of My Heart _," a one-shot that takes place sometime before the Simpsons episode "The Blunder Years," from Season 13._

 _Yet a third handful of scraps survived the purge! Resurrected from fragments, they now see the light of day. Here now, I present "_ The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers. _"_

 _I hope you enjoy!_

~ Muse

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns drummed his fingers on his desk in tense irritation. It was difficult to get things done now that Waylon Smithers was gone. Training these weak-minded knuckle-draggers to do basic jobs like a simple lie to a Nuclear Regulator Commissioner? How hard was it really to fudge some paperwork and leave no trace? Smithers did it all the time.

Smithers' exile was for the best, Burns kept telling himself. Smithers needed to grow, to adapt. If there was ever a chance in hell that Smithers could one day inherit the Burns empire - and really, who else was there? His abysmal son, Larry? Hardly! - then Burns had to make sure Smithers could handle it.

Burns ground his teeth in frustration. He'd been left with no choice but to send Smithers packing. Smithers had grown too close to him. Burns knew Smithers was capable of accomplishing things on his own, but time after time the man fell back into his old subservient routine. _If he can't even handle standing up to me_ , Burns mused, _then how on earth can he stand up to anyone else?_

He had to do something about the situation. Enter Thaddeus Dimas, of Plateau City. Thaddeus was the owner and proprietor of the Plateau City Nuclear Powerplant; and New York state seemed far enough away that Smithers wouldn't merely hop on the next train back.

Burns knew Thaddeus wouldn't try poaching Smithers for himself. The man was too independent for that. He was one of those pesky hands-on types who liked to know how to run every inch of his nuclear plant. Thaddeus was "blue-collar rich," as he put it: always wanting to know everything from maintenance to legalities.

Burns made a face. Getting one's hands dirty like that? No thank you!

Thaddeus and his freewheeling management was fine… somewhere else. Thaddeus' father, Lukas Dimas had been the first in his family to even go to college. Lukas and Burns met at Yale, and formed a lifelong friendship. Lukas graduated and went on to become an engineer. He eventually married, and had a whole litter of children.

They were a smart family. Burns appreciated their work ethic. He was surprised when Thaddeus decided to get into nuclear energy. (Lukas said it was partially Burns' influence.) Over the years Burns and Thaddeus had formed an amiable rivalry.

The last time Burns and Thaddeus met was at a convention in Chicago.

 _Tell me your secret, Monty_ , Thaddeus said laughing. _Every time I see you, you look the same as the time before. Pray tell me, what's your trick for youth?_

Burns gave a wry smirk. _Staying single._

 _Ah Monty, I've heard of your exploits_ , Thaddeus teased.

Burns gave a toothy grin and shook his head. _Tad, you haven't heard anything. Why, I'm the most eligible bachelor in five states, and I intend to keep it that way_.

 _Immortality for celibacy? Not a choice I'd make, but hey, I'm not you!_ He grabbed Burns shoulder in a firm squeeze.

Burns delicately pried Thaddeus' thick fingers from his narrow arm. _That's right, my good man, you're not. And let's keep it that way, eh?_

Through his entire exchange with Thaddeus, he'd made a point of ignoring Smithers. It would never do to have people start gossiping behind his back. Smithers, of course, hadn't understood. His feelings were hurt. Later that night, he'd asked Burns why he hadn't been introduced at the convention.

Burns put on his most indignant face. _Smithers,_ he said with a faint sneer, _I don't introduce my furniture to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who enters my office, do I?_

 _No, sir._

 _So if I don't introduce people to my desk, what on earth makes you think I'd introduce you? Why_ , Burns continued, _what would I even introduce you as? Pitiable boot-licker?_

Smithers had looked so crest-fallen at that point Burns forced himself to turn away. He couldn't bear the pained look in those eyes.

Burns shook his head, snapping himself back to the present. Ah, what indeed could he introduce Smithers as? Assistant? Friend? _The piece that completes me?_ He shook his head. None of those were quite right. He'd told Thaddeus that Smithers was merely one of his many assistants. Let the man believe what he wanted to.

Burns wondered how Smithers was doing in Plateau City. He'd been expecting a phone call, a letter, something that indicated Smithers was missing him. Finally, he broke down and called Thaddeus himself. _How's Waylon doing on his training? Is everything going okay?_ He tried to keep any hint of concern from showing in his voice.

 _Oh, he's a sharp one,_ Thaddeus replied. _I can see why you want him to learn. I think there's some rivalry between him and Preston, but they'll sort it out._

 _Who's Preston?_

 _Oh,_ Thaddeus replied cheerfully through the line, _he's this year's model when it comes to my personal assistants: an eager-beaver from Brown. Not a Yalie, but a good kid nonetheless._

Burns scowled, glad Thaddeus couldn't see his expression. _I see_ , he replied carefully. _Well, my good man, I intend to stay informed with Smithers' progress. And if he's failing to do so, I expect a full report from you._

Thaddeus' gave his familiar laugh. Burns found it quite grating. _Or what, Monty? He's a grown man and he can make his own decisions!_ Another chortle. _What would you intend to do about it._

 _Tad, he is my employee, and I'll do whatever I have to_. The conversation was at an end. Burns hung up the phone and tented his fingers. _What would I do?_ he thought stoically. _For Smithers? I'll do whatever it takes._

Why had he even considered sending Smithers away in the first place? Well, it had all started last week with a very unpleasant dream.

It was a repeat of the event forty years ago that claimed the life of Waylon Smithers Sr, except this time, there was no one to stop the reactor from melting down. Burns tried to run, but the fires quickly overtook him. He felt his skin blister and catch fire. He tried to cry for help, but the superheated air rushed into his lungs, burning him from the inside out. He choked as his skin bubbled and cracked. The pain felt all too real…

In his dream, he died.

The next thing he was aware of was lying on a stainless steel mortician's table. There were lamps overhead, and wires connected to every part of him. He tried to scream, but the ventilator hose down his throat prohibited it. He tried to sit up, but found his body unable to move. Even dead, there were straps tying down his arms and legs.

There were voices in the shadows around him. He recognized them as the voices of Waylon Smithers, both Jr. and Sr, talking quietly.

 _I thought he'd pull through_ , the younger Smithers said quietly.

Smithers Sr. replied, but Burns couldn't catch it.

 _I loved him_ , said Smithers Jr. _I always thought love would be enough._

 _So did I_ , replied Smithers Sr. _It's time to say goodbye, son._

The faces of the two Smithers appeared in Burns field of vision.

 _Goodbye, Monty_ , said Smithers Sr, face devoid of emotion.

 _Goodbye, Mister Burns,_ Smithers Jr, intoned; tears began to fill his eyes.

Burns watched in horror as the two Smithers, in unison, reached for the switch on the ventilator. _I'm still alive_ , he tried to scream. _I'm right here!_

He heard the whisper of the Smithers Sr.'s voice. _If it were heaven… it's a reflection of a heaven… just a reflection._

 _He won't be there_ , replied Smithers Jr. _He'll never come. It's too late._

There was a click, a whir, then the air flowing into Burns' lungs stopped. He felt himself drowning under the weight of his own flesh. He was still screaming into his own head as the men pulled a white sheet up over his face.

Burns awoke, this time screaming aloud. He greedily sucked air into his lungs, threw the blankets off. He hauled himself up and sat, rubbing his temples. He hadn't had a dream like that in a long time. He could barely remember the details, only the mood. He felt shaken, and physically ill; a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. He went to his bathroom and dry-heaved into the sink.

It was Monday morning, technically. He gave up on the idea of sleep for the rest of the night, and sadly hauled himself up. Time to call in a favor. He had hoped this day would never come, but now it seemed unavoidable. The visions haunted him.

As the day wore on, they eroded his ability to find any measure of peace. He started dreading Smithers' presence.

That dream threw the prospect of Burns' mortality into stark relief, and he found he couldn't move on. It seemed like every day Smithers spent near him was another day wasted for his assistant.

* * *

Waylon Smithers, Jr. woke early, but not from the result of bad dreams. He kept a busy schedule. He got up, took care of his dog then headed to the gym to get in a workout before going starting the day.

After showering, he dressed in his work clothes and headed to Burns Manor. He was expecting to get his boss roused and fed. Surprisingly, Burns was already awake, and in a very taciturn mood. Burns shoo'd him away, and resisted his help at every step; even going so far as to insist that he drive himself to work that morning.

Smithers expressed his reluctance, but Burns insisted, and threatened to set the hounds on him if he didn't leave. Sighing, Smithers got back into his car, and drove to the plant.

He sat in his modest office at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant and sorted through several stacks of letters and notices. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission and OSHA had sent over a litany of problems that needed to be corrected. One notice included the phrase: "plant appears to not have been upgraded since 1978." Another classified the nuclear plant as an "imminent liability." Somewhere in the pile was a document that stated their insurance would be cancelled unless everything was fixed.

Burns being moody, administrative disasters…

Why did everything always come down on his head at once?

Smithers sighed, and considered lighting a cigarette from the pack he kept hidden in his desk. He rarely smoked, but some days the stress could get to him. He had to keep them hidden. Periodically, Burns would go through his desk. Whenever he found cigarettes, he threw them out and proceeded to give Smithers a lecture about the evils of tobacco. Why Burns even cared, Smithers had no idea.

Mister Burns was not the easiest man to work for. Though it was arguably a labor of love, at least on Smithers' end, the onslaught of duties could be never ending. Sometimes, secretly, he wished that Mister Burns would allow him to hire his own assistant.

He brought up that idea once. Burns had quickly shot it down. _How else could I ever expect anything to be done right if you weren't doing it, Smithers!_ Burns snorted. _I suggest you put such foolishness out of your head this instant. I'd sooner replace you than have two sets of hands messing in my affairs._

Burns knew how to make words hurt. He wielded them like a razor-edged blade.

Lately, it had been harder for Smithers to stay excited about his job. It was only reasonable, he figured. Burns had been particularly hostile all weekend, banishing him from the Manor and insisting on being left alone. Burns often got ill-tempered around the middle of March. This spring, Burns seemed to be even more callous than usual.

By the time March rolled around, he barely spoke to Smithers, save for the occasional order. Smithers' attempts at cheering the man up were met with hostility, ranging from subtle to downright overt.

Smithers wasn't sure why. Regardless, morning was the icing on the cake.

Smithers sighed and got himself another cup of coffee. It was going to be a long day.

As much love as he felt towards his boss, he never could quite understand the man. Much as he tried to get inside Burns' head, the man would block him. Occasionally, he'd see - or imagined he'd _seen_ \- the hint of something more lurking behind the man's eyes.

There were times Burns seemed almost tender towards him. Then almost immediately after such incidents, Burns would turn around and lash out with a cutting remark, specifically designed to wound.

Smithers had to admit after so many years of knowing Burns, then developing unrequited adoration for the man, that he was finally starting to lose hope. He had read the books on relationships, everything from coping with unreturned feelings to the art of seduction. He'd alternated trying to move past his feelings, and trying to express them. It was a vicious cycle, and it was wearing him down.

This simple truth of the matter was after nearly twenty years, he, Waylon Joseph Smithers, had grown tired of trying. Here he was, plodding away through a mountain of paperwork, and for what? A brief moment with Mister Burns before the man decided to put him down again?

Smithers had to admit his life might have gotten a little too focused on Burns over the years. It probably wasn't healthy.

Nor was smoking.

Nor drinking to solve his problems.

Smithers took his glasses off and put his head in his hands. He muttered a brief prayer, wondering if God even heard him. _Please Lord, make this all work out, somehow_.

Burns' voice interrupted his quiet appeal.

"Sleeping on the job, Smithers? Why it's only nine AM. Perhaps I should just fire you and replace you with one of those trained monkeys from the mail room."

Smithers raised his head and looked at Burns. He was tired, so tired, of everything.

"Perhaps you should, sir," he replied, defeated. He turned his back to his boss, and returned to the endless heap of notices on his desk.

* * *

Burns blinked in surprise. Normally, such a threat elicited a frantic response from Smithers. One of those simpering _please don't! I need you_ spiels that were both disgusting and flattering at the same time.

Not today.

Smithers seemed distracted, bored even… then Smithers had turned away from _him!_ That's not how things were supposed to work between them. C. M. Burns was the only one allowed to do the shunning!

Burns walked back to his desk in stunned silence. What was going on with Smithers lately? Burns thought they had an understanding. There were certain ways things had be between two men like them. He sat down and tapped his fingers on his desk pensively.

"Smithers," he bellowed, "get in here!"

"Coming, sir," came the reply from Smithers' adjacent office. The man emerged, and made his way over. Burns noticed he was moving without the usual spring to his step.

"Sit down," Burns instructed.

Smithers flopped into a chair across from Burns and sat lethargically.

"What is going on with you? You've been distracted and aloof, and downright not yourself."

Smithers straightened his back. "I'm fine, sir."

Burns tented his fingers. "This is a definition of 'fine' I'm unfamiliar with."

"Alright, then I'm not fine," Smithers replied back, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"I can see that."

"Mister Burns, is there a point to this? I'm already behind and it's not even eleven yet. I need to get back to my paperwork."

Burns tapped his fingertips together. "Such attitude, Smithers," he snapped. "It's uncharacteristic of you, and quite frankly it is _not_ appreciated. You're here to do a job, and one job only."

("-Actually it's about 2,800 little jobs," muttered Smithers.)

Burns continued. "If I can't trust you to do it, then what good are you to me?"

Smithers sank back down into the chair. "I suppose then I'm nothing to you."

"Bah, there you go, being melodramatic again. I don't have a need for theatrics, but I think I know what the problem is. It's working here, isn't it?" Burns gestured to the office. "You've been here for nearly twenty years, and yet you're still in the same role today as you were when you started! I daresay that ball and chain could start to chaff anyone's ankle after so long a spell."

Smithers said nothing, merely stared dully.

Burns winced inwardly. He had been hoping for some sort of response. Time to pull out the big guns.

"I have a solution for both of us. You see, Smithers, I appreciate the self-made man. You're too complacent here. It's my own fault. I've made things too easy for you, let you stay soft. Fortunately, I've been thinking about things like this lately. The other night, Smithers, I realized how fragile and fleeting life is. I'm not going to be around forever. I need someone to take care of the old girl when I'm gone."

"You mean the nuclear plant, sir?"

"Of course I do. What other 'girl' do you think I'd be talking about? No, Smithers, I've arranged your transfer and taken care of everything. You should count your blessings. I had to pull a lot of strings to get Thaddeus to take you on as his Chief of Plant Operations. You'll be leaving tomorrow."

Thaddeus Dimas. He ran a nuclear generating station out in New York State, in a Springfield-sized town known as Plateau City. It was so-named for its location, along the palisades of the Hudson River.

"Leaving, sir?" Smithers voice rose an octave.

Burns winced at the shrill tone. "Yes. Frankly you've been a bit of a 'Debbie-Downer' lately, and I had a backup plan in case you got on my nerves."

"You're sending me away!?"

"Yes. You'll be flying out to a town between New York City and Albany. You'll be working for an old friend of mine."

"What about my apartment?"

"I'll have my lawyers terminate your lease."

"What about my dog?"

"Take the animal with you, or it can stay in the kennels at the manor. I don't care."

Smithers threw his hands in the air. "I can't believe you've been planning to get rid of me, just like that! I'm not some stock you can buy or sell at your convenience."

Burns narrowed his eyes. "Oh, can't I? Because right now, I'm feeling positively bearish on 'Smithers Inc,'" he replied sardonically.

Smithers gave a plaintive sound and jumped to his feet. He began pacing frantically, running his hands through his spikey grey hair. "How could you?"

"I made phone calls-"

"No!" Smithers wailed. "I mean, how could you do this to me?"

Burns pursed his lips. He couldn't be honest with Smithers. He couldn't say: _because I'm too close to you_. He definitely couldn't say: _because I love you._ Such things would only make Smithers cling to him more. He needed to break the bond between them quickly and harshly. He'd send Smithers to Plateau City, have Thaddeus teach him. Then, maybe someday, he could ask Smithers to come _home_.

"I can do this to you because I own you," he replied with all the indifference he could muster. "You're a resource, a tool. A microscopic cog. While you are necessary to the future of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, and quite possibly my entire legacy…" he paused, considering Smithers' expression carefully. Time for the final blow. "In words you so doggedly avow, you presuppose one simple truth: you are _not important to me_."

Smithers buried his face in his hands and sunk to his knees. "Why?" he moaned softly. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I need-" Burns started, then hastily bit down. He'd almost said the truth. "Because sometimes one needs to take calculated risks to get ahead. You say you wonder why I don't give you the title of Vice-President? Well, your loyal doting is all very flattering, but how can I respect that? I need a man I can respect to leave at the helm when I die!"

"You don't respect me."

"No; and I'm giving you a chance to change that. Go out in the big world. Make something of yourself. You've never even lived outside of Springfield, for god's sake! You had such potential, and you're wasting it on your fatuous obsession with me!"

Burns drew himself up to his full height, theatrically. "I never asked for your lamentable affections, _boy_! It disgusts me. I asked you to do a job, and you're failing at it. Here's your chance to redeem yourself. Take it… or clean out your desk."

 _Please_ , Burns prayed silently, frantically, _please don't say you'll quit. Please go, and come back a stronger man! I need you, but you have to be able to be my equal. It's all I wanted from you. Why can't you ever see that?_ He clenched his jaw and scowled, lest his face reveal his desperation.

Smithers knelt on the floor, stunned. He wasn't sure he could stand if he wanted to. His legs felt like they were made of jelly. His heart was in his stomach. Mister Burns hated him! After everything he'd done for Burns, the man was repulsed by him.

Smithers felt as if someone had cut his stomach open and was slowly eviscerating him. _Why? WHY?_ He screamed inside his own head.

Why was he never good enough? Why hadn't his aunt and uncle wanted to keep him? Why had his stepfather mocked him? Why did everyone he tried to impress wind up regarding him as a sniveling nobody? He wrapped his arms around himself and tried not to throw up.

Burns wasn't saying anything, or even making a move towards him. Utter indifference. Burns was impassively standing behind his desk, probably debating between whether to call security, or just release the hounds.

Smithers felt crushed. He gasped for air like a man sinking in quicksand.

He should give up, he thought. He should tell Burns off, quit and pack up his things. But then what? He'd go home to his apartment, and wake up several days later when the whiskey ran out. Beyond that, what would he do? All his skills revolved around his obsequious relationship with his boss.

Perhaps traveling halfway across the country could give him the fresh start he needed. Maybe, just maybe, he could come back as the man Mister Burns wanted him to be. Or, perhaps he could remake himself into the man _he_ wanted to be.

"Fine," Smithers mumbled thickly. "I'll do it."

"Do what," Burns asked ominously.

"I'll go to the Plateau City plant."

Burns steepled his fingers. "Excellent. Go home, get packed. I'll tell Thaddeus you'll be flying out first thing tomorrow morning. Oh, he'll be very excited to have you, I'm sure."

("At least somebody is," Smithers muttered beneath his breath.)


	2. Chapter 2

Waylon Smithers settled as comfortably as he could into the plush first-class seat of the Boeing 737. Of course Mister Burns wouldn't have sent him in the company jet. No, that would be too much of a courtesy to hope for. He should probably be glad Burns hadn't decided to mail him in a shipping crate. Smithers grabbed a _SkyGalleria_ catalog and listlessly flipped through it.

Outside the windows, the sky was still dark as dark as it was when he'd left from the manor.

Everything had gone by so quickly this morning.

He'd originally worried about his car. Burns said he could leave it in the servants' garage at the manor. A taxi showed up at the manor, a _taxi_ of all things. Not even one of Burns' extra chauffeurs and the Rolls Royce. A common, smelly, grubby taxi.

Smithers loaded his suitcase into the trunk, and climbed into the back seat. He'd hoped Burns would stand on the step and see him off, but when he looked back, the man had already gone. Smithers scanned the unlit windows of Burns Manor, hoping to see a face peeking out.

There was nothing.

He blinked back tears, took a deep breath, and collected his thoughts. Smithers allowed himself one last glance out the rear window at the rapidly disappearing outline of Burns Manor on the hill and forced himself to look forward.

Now he was on an east-bound plane.

Hadn't he already been thinking about moving on? Hadn't his job ceased to thrill?

Smithers had to admit yes, to both those things.

Perhaps, he mused, this was a blessing in disguise. It was true he'd never lived outside of Springfield. He'd spent his whole life, from childhood to college within the town line.

Now that he was on the plane, he finally had some time to think. It wasn't like he was being fired, per se. What had Burns said, a chance to redeem himself? Smithers gave a snort of annoyance, an unexpected sense of rebellion rising in his chest. _Maybe I'll like it so well in Plateau City that I just won't come back!_ he thought defiantly. He crossed his ankles and cracked his knuckles. _How'd Mister Burns like that, hah_! Smithers found himself hoping Burns wouldn't like it at all.

He tucked the catalog back in the pouch, and glanced out the window. The plane was making a slow taxi around the field to the main runway. It pivoted, and came to a stop. The captain's voice came through the speaker, announcing take-off. Smithers felt the slight change in vibration, heard the whine of the jet engines as they cycled up.

He felt a fluttering in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was a nervous excitement. More than that. Exhilaration! As the plane gathered speed and his body pressed back into the seat from the force, he felt his spirits begin to lift with the aircraft.

It was like he was leaving a good bit of his stress behind as well.

At cruising altitude, he ordered a cocktail from the flight attendant, put his headphones in, and leaned his chair back.

 _Plateau City, here I come!_

Smithers turned up the volume on his MyPod, and closed his eyes.

Three hours later, he stepped off the plane into the bustling airport. He'd landed in LaGuardia. According to the directory, it would be a short train ride up to Plateau City. He switched on his cell phone. As expected, there were no messages from Burns, but there was a voicemail from Thaddeus Dimas himself.

Smithers hit "listen."

"Hello, Mister Smithers," Dimas' voice began. Smithers noticed the man had a slight greek accent, rolling his r's and drawing out his vowels ever so slightly. "This is Mister Dimas. Your employer, Mister Burns, told me to expect your arrival this afternoon. I'm hoping to catch you before you leave LaGuardia. Please do not take the trains. I've sent my pilot Antoine Radson to bring you the remaining distance. He will meet you at the atrium at two-thirty. If by some chance you've already left, please contact me directly so I can arrange to have my people meet you when you arrive at the Plateau City Train Station. I appreciate the opportunity to work with you, Mister Smithers. Good day." The message ended.

Smithers thumbed his phone into sleep mode and tucked it into his carry-on bag before he could make the mistake of calling Burns. He'd see how long it would take for Burns to call him; and if that happened, he thought rebelliously, he'd be happy to hit "ignore."

Smithers paused, pulled out his phone again, and brought up a notepad application. "Don't call Monty," he wrote out. He saved the picture as his background wallpaper. _There_ , he thought smugly. He put his phone in his pocket with his MyPod, and headed to the atrium to meet Antoine.

LaGuardia airport was busy, but it wasn't one of the most crowded airports he'd ever been in. Smithers remembered a time he and Burns had flown into O'Hare Airport in Chicago. They'd gone out for a conference, and gotten snowed in. What a nightmare that had been. Smithers had been able to get them a hotel room at the airport Hilton. Despite all the other stranded travelers, he managed to secure a suite with a king-sized bed and a separate parlor room.

Burns got the bed… all to himself. Smithers wound up sleeping on a love-seat in the living room, curled into a tight and awkward ball. He'd awoke stiff as an old dog, only to have Burns mock him for it.

Smithers clenched his fist as he remembered. Even if nothing ever would've happened, the bed still would've been big enough for both of them. Or Burns could've paid for a separate room for him. But no, that cost too much money. Why did Burns always got the lion's share of everything. Why did he, Waylon Smithers, always have to settle for scraps?

Smithers relaxed his fingers and tried to shake the tension out. It would do no good to make himself angry now. Better to focus on the future.

Perhaps it was the distance, perhaps simply a change of scenery; but for the first time in the nearly two decades that he'd worked for Monty Burns Smithers felt like he was finally thinking clear: he was seeing Burns' unpleasant behavior for what it was! The revelation was invigorating.

Smithers checked his watch. His plane had gotten in a bit ahead of schedule. There was a barbershop ahead. He ran a hand through his spikey hair. He'd worn the same hairstyle for far too long, and with a good half-hour before he had to meet Antoine he had time for a quick trim. He'd have the sides shaved down, and leave the top long. Perhaps, he'd let the top grow longer. So many men these days were doing that. It looked good. His current style felt rather dated.

A fresh haircut always made him feel upbeat and confident.

Less than half an hour later, he strolled out, feeling sharp. He paused to check out his reflection in a shop window as he made his way to baggage claim. He ran a hand over his new undercut style. Once the top grew out, it would really start to take shape. _New city, new hair_ , Smithers thought with a smile. He put in his earbuds and beamed at his reflection. _Looking good, Waylon,_ he thought smugly. _Looking good_.

Antoine was easy to pick out at the baggage claim. He was holding a sign that read "W. Smithers." He was also sporting blue hair and a matching blue beard. Even his eyebrows were blue.

 _Really_ , Smithers thought in amazement. _Dimas lets him get away with that?_ Smithers tried not to look too surprised as he introduced himself. Antoine held out a hand and Smithers shook it.

Smithers made his way over to the baggage carrousel, but Antoine stopped him.

"I hope you don't mind," Antoine said. "I took the liberty of having your bags directly transferred to the chopper.

"That's fine. Thank you, Mister Radson."

Antoine held up a hand. "Antoine." He tucked the sign under his arm. "Do you prefer…"

Smithers shrugged. "Waylon, though honestly I'm quite used to being called by my last name."

"You prefer 'Waylon?'"

Smithers nodded.

"'Waylon' it is then," replied Antoine. He lead Smithers back up to the main level, and deftly negotiated a maze of terminals and shuttles to the private airfield.

Finally, Smithers and Antoine emerged at the executive strip. Antoine gestured to a chopper sitting ready on a helipad. "There she is, our _Little Diva,_ Lima Delta." Antoine gave the helicopter an adoring pat as he climbed in. "She's an AW119 Koala," he said as he slipped a headset on and handed one to Smithers. "Not the most luxurious gal out there, but she's fast and she's got a six-hundred mile range, so… yeah." His voice trailed off as he started the pre-flight checks.

Antoine pulled out a flight log and jotted down a few figured. "You can sit up here, or in the cabin. Wherever you're most comfortable. But you should decide quick because I'll be done with these in a minute."

Smithers raised an eyebrow. "I don't mind the cockpit."

Antoine nodded, absentmindedly. He leaned over and opened the other side door so Smithers could climb in.

Smithers tried not to stare at Antoine's aqua hair. _If someone tried that at Mister Burns' plant, they'd be sent home on the spot_ , Smithers mused. He found himself wondering what sort of person Thaddeus Dimas was. Deep down, Smithers liked the blue hair. It wasn't something he'd ever consider for himself, but it seemed to suit Antoine.

Smithers sat back as Antoine finished the last pre-flight checks, and started the engine. He barked a few strings of letters and numbers back and forth with the flight deck, then deftly lifted off. He angled the chopped north-west, and headed out over the Hudson River.

Smithers watched the city and water scroll below through the plexi-bubble under his feet. Almost immediately they were on the other side of the river, rising in altitude and flying over the several-hundred foot high cliffs towards Plateau City.

Plateau City was aptly named. Built atop the cliffs, it served as a commerce hub between New York City, Albany, and New Jersey. It was a densely packed metropolitan area. The preserves and state parks along the palisades limited the lateral development. Instead of growing out, like Springfield, Plateau City had built up.

Smithers could make out the iconic shape of the cooling towers near the north-western edge of the city. "Cooling towers," Smithers remarked into the mouthpiece.

"Yepper," replied Antoine. "We drew from the rivers until 1972. Then legislation changed. People didn't like 'em, but oh well."

"You were working here back then?"

"Me? Nah. I didn't start till the 90s. Shoot, Waylon, how old do you think I am?" He laughed, the sound crackling with static though Smithers' headset.

Smithers eyed Antoine carefully. It was hard to tell. The man's face was both lined and youthful at the same time. He was either close to Smithers' age, or he spent a lot of time in the sun. "I guess the blue hair threw me," Smithers after a moment.

Antoine gave a flippant sort of shrug, and didn't reply.

Smithers wasn't sure if he'd hit upon a nerve. He folded his hands around the edge of the seat and watched out the window as Antoine made the final approach to the Platea City Nuclear Generating Station. He gently settled the helicopter down in the center of the "H", and started powering down the engines. "Give it a minute before you get out," he said over the sound of the machine. "Those blades will drop as they slow. Don't need you getting a very short haircut, if you know what I mean." He gave a smile that was somewhere between playful, and deadly serious.

Smithers nodded.

The rotors cycled down, and the cabin grew quiet. Antoine slipped his headgear off. Smithers did likewise. There was an awkward moment of silence. "Antoine," Smithers began cautiously.

"Yes?" Antoine replied, a tone equally cautious.

"I wasn't trying to offend you about your hair."

Antoine looked relieved. "Oh that, no. Don't worry about it. I get that sometimes." He opened the hatch to on his side. "Oh, look. Here come's Dimas' loyal lapdog now." He rolled his eyes. "That guys a total lackey. I mean, he's got his lips so far up Dimas' ass…" Antoine paused and looked embarrassed. "But hey, don't let me start gossip, okay? That young Ivy Grad kissbutt is Preston Tucci. He's probably here to meet you."

Antoine opened the hatch and stepped out. "Hey, preppy!" he said amicably.

The 'preppy' he was speaking to, Preston Tucci, was a young man in his mid-twenties. Not long out of business school by the look of his attire. He wore immaculately pressed khakis, a white button-up shirt, a patterned tie Smithers could only describe as 'hideous,' and a grey blazer. His brown hair was gelled into a messy-chic style, and he wore a pair of round-rimmed glasses.

He glared down his nose at Antoine. "Mister Radson," he said snootily. "I see you managed to make yet another successful landing."

"Wouldn't want to disappoint you, Preppy."

"It's 'Preston,' and if you crashed I would not be disappointed. It's Mister Smithers I'm glad to see here."

"Yeah, whatever," Antoine said with a grin. He hopped out of the chopped and started securing the rotors. "You'd miss me if I were gone."

Preston pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I most certainly would not."

"Whatever…" Antoine called over his shoulder in a sing-song voice.

Preston ignored him. "Uncouth deck-ape," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough that Smithers could hear. "I fully apologize for him. He seems to think that somehow, being a pilot makes him beyond reproach. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Preston Tucci, Mister Dimas' Executive Assistant."

("Lapdog," crowed Antoine from the background.)

("Shut up, Antoine," hissed Preston.)

Smithers watched the interchange with amusement. _It's like watching Lenny and Carl_ , he thought, chuckling to himself. Unbidden, Smithers was hit with a wave of nostalgia. He sighed inwardly. He'd almost miss those two. Almost, but probably not quite.

Preston was handing him a tablet and stylus. "Here's a copy of your temporary employment contract, Mister Smithers. I've taken to ensuring everything's in order. Please sign here with this pen, and we can get you settled into your office. Antoine will handle your luggage, and we'll get it delivered to your place."

* * *

"So, what do you think of your office?" Thaddeus Dimas asked proudly.

Smithers gave a gracious bow. "It's very nice, sir."

In truth, the office was much the same as the one he'd had at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, maybe a bit smaller. It was simple, but served its purpose. The office had the standard desk, computer, cabinets and shelves, as well as two guest chairs.

Dimas himself was an outgoing and rotund man, with small dark eyes, and Grecian features. He was evidently eager to see Smithers get settled in. He welcomed Smithers warmly, grasping Smithers' hand in his massive, and surprisingly calloused paws. Smithers couldn't help but think of the man from the Monopoly game when he looked at Dimas' round figure in a suit. A slightly more burly "Uncle Pennybags."

After Smithers had stowed his laptop and day bag in his office, Dimas proceeded with a tour of the plant.

In terms of function, it was very similar, but the layout was different. Smithers also noted that the plant looked to be in tip-top condition. Smithers hadn't realized how dilapidated the Springfield plant had become until seeing Dimas' state-of-the-art technology.

"We use the same sort of reactors as you do in Springfield, boiling water reactors. A lot of this will be old hat to you, I'm sure" he explained as he led Smithers to the central control room. "Naturally, the cooling rods are controlled by an electromagnet. As long as the circuit is powered, they remain up. In an emergency, the power is cut, the magnets turn off, and the reactor goes into shutdown. No risk of anything jamming here!" he beamed.

Dimas continued to show Smithers the plant, and introduced him to several of the lead employees he'd be shadowing. "Consider your position as Chief something of an externship, except with positional authority," Dimas said, with a snorting chuckle. "But," he added, waggling a thick finger, "don't get too bossy. Preston doesn't like competition."

"No, sir," agreed Smithers.

That night, Smithers unpacked his suitcases and folded his clothes into the dresser in his bedroom. The apartment he'd been set up in was nothing fancy, a single bedroom affair, but it was furnished. It was located in an extended-stay hotel within walking distance of Plateau City's downtown district. The commute to the plant wasn't too bad either. He could take public transportation all the way over.

He'd met several people from the plant today. The attitude seemed to be an easy-going, but professional atmosphere. No threat of hounds or trapdoors anywhere. It was such a change from the way the Springfield plant was run under Burns' iron fist.

 _There you go_ , he scolded himself, _thinking of Mister Burns again._

He pulled his MyPod out of his backpack and plugged it into its charger.

Several of the plant employees were meeting up for dinner and drinks after work. Smithers being the new guy, they'd invited him to come along. There was Ruby from accounting, Preston, a few other people whose names escaped him, and somehow Antoine had managed to invite himself into the mix.

Smithers noted that Antoine was the only one with blue hair. He'd asked Preston about it.

 _It's because he's a pilot_ , Preston scoffed. _He thinks he doesn't need to be seen in the public eye, and Mister Dimas agrees, though I have no idea why he tolerates the man. Antoine is completely irreverent when it comes to presentation._ Preston made a face. _If I had_ my _way, he would've been fired long ago._

 _Perhaps they're not like Lenny and Carl after all_ , Smithers thought, reconsidering his initial impression.

Regardless, Smithers couldn't help but think a night out might be just the thing to keep his mind occupied. It would also be a good chance for him to get to know his coworkers better. He slipped on a pair of jeans and a vest over his button-up shirt. He paused, and checked his reflection in the mirror. The outfit worked for a casual dinner.

Preston had given Smithers directions to _The Lucky Lady_. It was a bar downtown with a western theme. It would be a bit of a walk from Smithers' apartment, but nothing too outrageous. Smithers put on a pair of cowboy boots he'd brought from Springfield. They were well-broken in, but still stylish. He grabbed his wallet and keys off the table, left his cellphone deliberately on the dresser, and headed out.

It wasn't as bad a walk as he had thought it might be.

He arrived after a few blocks.

Just like the gang had said, it was easy to identify by the cowgirl silhouette on the marquee. He went in, and easily recognized the crew from the nuclear plant. Antoine stood out like a sore thumb. Smithers made his way over to the table and sat down between Ruby (from accounting), and another man he didn't know yet. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, and drinks ordered.

Smithers noticed Antoine's eyes kept getting drawn to a tall blond woman at the bar.

Ruby snapped her fingers. "Hey, don't forget to blink, Antoine."

He blushed, looked away, and took a sip of water. "I wasn't staring," he muttered into his glass.

"'Caesar Flickerman' over here thinks he's quite the lady's man!" one of the other people, a middle-aged man with a friendly face explained.

Antoine made a rude, but playful gesture.

Everyone laughed.

"He strikes out more often than not," added Preston. "I, however, have a wonderful woman in my life."

("Yeah," Antoine said in fake whisper, "too bad it's your mother!")

Preston sputtered indignantly.

The group laughed again, and drinks arrived. Several rounds later, they were still all friends, except maybe for Preston and Antoine. Fortunately, they'd simply stopped talking to each other for the most part.

Smithers tossed back another shot of whiskey, and followed it a beer chaser. He found himself grinning like a cheshire cat. The lights seemed brighter, and slightly blurry. He took a sip of water, and munched on some of the tortilla chips the server brought out. The small gathering continued long into the night.

Smithers barely remembered the walk back to his apartment, but he was sure of one thing: he liked those people. He didn't miss Springfield, and if he decided to stay in Plateau City, it might not be so bad.

So thinking, he kicked off his boots, stripped down to his trunks, and slid into bed. Morning would come soon enough, but maybe… just _maybe_ , he thought was looking forward to a new beginning without Burns.

He never glanced at his phone before he went to bed. If he had, he might've seen a missed call, (alas, no voicemail) from a certain isolated and lonely old man left back in Springfield.


	3. Chapter 3

_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_

 _A few people have asked about the title. "The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers"? they question. Where did that come from?_

 _Well, what happens when something unfolds? It depends on what it is. If you unfold a delicate piece of origami artwork, the creation is lost. But when flower petals unfold, the bloom within is revealed for the world to see. So too can you unfold a note from a secret admirer, and read their words._

 _Yet if you try to force a bud open, you inevitably destroy the flower within._

 _In both cases, change occurs. Whether unfolding is ultimately constructive, or destructive, remains to be seen._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

Smithers woke with a bit of headache, but nothing he hadn't felt before. He set a pot of coffee to brew, and took a shower. He still hadn't glanced at his phone.

It felt strange not having a dog to walk, or going to the gym. Or having to rush over to Burns Manor to…

... He let the thought go. There was no point in dwelling on that. He packed his breakfast and lunch, he rarely ate in the early morning, and headed down to the train station.

A quick jaunt across town and he was at the Plateau nuclear plant. He flashed his ID badge to the guard, and walked quickly, following the swell of employees coming on shift; passing night-shift as they departed. He punched in, something he hadn't done in years, having been on salary at Springfield, and made his way to his office.

Preston was already waiting for him, tablet in one hand, a mug of chai tea in the other. "Good morning, Waylon," he said crisply. "Today we'll get you started in earnest. You'll be shadowing Gary down in engineering. He's one of our lead engineers, and has several decades under his belt. He'll be teaching you the basics." Preston paused. "I'm sure you already know the basics, of course, but Mister Dimas wants to be sure you have exposure from tech-pubs through active drills." Tech-pubs, technical publications, the several-inch-thick "user manuals" for a nuclear power plant. Smithers had seen them, but never actually opened one.

Preston lead him down to the main workspace, and passed Smithers off to Gary.

The day went by slowly. Smithers' experience had always been in the administrative side of things. He never spent much time down in the bowels of the plant. He had to admit though, everything in Dimas operation was so much more modern-looking, and cleaner, than the Springfield plant.

Gary went over the various manuals in a room he called 'the library.' It was mostly a closet, full of steel shelving and heavy technical publications so thick they had to be bound together with metal screws. "There's well over a hundred pounds of tech-pubs for each reactor, and several more for each hydro-circuit." He gestured to the various units. "Every piece of equipment had a manual."

"What's that shelf there?" Smithers asked, gesturing to a lone steel rack, about five feet high and three feet wide. It was full to the top with tech-pubs.

"Oh, that?" Gary asked. "That's the index." He strode purposefully over and grabbed a manual at random. He carried it back to the table and set it down in front of Smithers. "Now, it's not important to memorize this stuff, no one ever could. What's important is knowing how to use them. It's not always straight forward. Here, let me show you-"

For the rest of the morning, and all of that afternoon, Gary showed Smithers how to identify equipment by number, and find the relevant manuals. He went through tag-out logs, records that identified equipment either shut down or in need of maintenance, and maintenance filing requests. He showed Smithers how to record events as per government requirements.

It was rather dry, but Smithers had to admit none of this was anything he'd ever gone over at Springfield. There, it had always been " _someone else's job_."

"Does Mister Dimas know all this?" he asked during one of their breaks.

Gary made a so-so gesture with his hand. "He's not down here that often. I'd say it's more that he knows _of_ it." Gary ran a finger over his beard. "Does that make sense?"

Smithers shrugged. "I suppose so."

The rest of the day past uneventfully.

Back in his office, Smithers finally took the time to look at his phone. The "missed call" icon was flashing. He checked his call logs. An incoming call from Springfield. A familiar number. Burns Manor.

Smithers narrowed his eyes. There wasn't a voicemail. Probably an accident, Smithers thought tensely. He deleted the notification, and stuffed his phone in his pocket.

Smithers gathered his travel bag, and clocked out; pausing to say goodbye to Preston on his way out. Preston raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose. "Goodnight, Waylon. We'll see you tomorrow." Smithers bade the young man good night, and clocked out.

Smithers boarded the train, and headed back to his cozy apartment.

Once he got in, he checked his email and social media. There were three new friends-requests from Preston, Antoine, and Ruby respectively. He clicked "accept," for each, and spent a moment browsing their walls. Preston had a girlfriend, according to his profile. It looked like Antoine was a native of Plateau City. Ruby apparently liked posting pictures of food.

Food… Smithers realized he was hungry.

Though his apartment had a kitchenette with a small stove and fridge, he hadn't thought about buying groceries. He didn't feel like shopping at this hour, so he threw on a coat and headed out. He didn't know the area well, but the Lucky Lady was within easy walking distance, and they had the typical "pub grub" of burgers, wings, and a handful of salads.

He didn't see anyone he recognized, so he sat down at the bar. He ordered a beer, domestic, and a "Bucking Bronco Burger" off the dinner menu.

One of the bartenders, a man with deep eyes, skin the color of warm hazelnut greeted Smithers warmly. He wore a cowboy hat over his thickly curled hair, and a red bandana around his neck; keeping with the western theme.

"I don't think I've seen you around he before," he said with a smile.

"I just moved to town," Smithers replied.

"Drinking a lager, eh?" the man observed. "Well, just between you and me, you should really try some of the CliffBoxer. It's a micro-brew right in town. Now I'm not hating on American pale ales, but don't be afraid to drink local. Whoa, looks like your food's up. I'll let you get to it then, but let me know if you need anything. Name's Leon, in case you need it." He tipped his cowboy hat to Smithers, and moved off to tend to the other patrons.

The burger was huge, and quite tasty Smithers had to admit. It had some spicy chipotle sauce, or something on it. The fries it came with tasted homemade. He ate his fill, then asked for a to-go box.

Walking home, Smithers had to admit he liked Plateau City thus far. He tried not be make too many assumptions, but he felt oddly empowered, like he was on some sort of euphoric high that came along with his newfound freedom.

His phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the number.

It was Burns.

Smithers almost laughed aloud. "I don't think so, Monty," he said smugly, and hit ignore. Two calls already. Well, too bad. If Burns had wanted to talk to him, he shouldn't have sent Smithers away. Smithers put his phone into "airplane" mode, and stuck it in his pocket.

When he got back to his apartment, he added Burns' number to his "blocked calls" list. If the man called in, his phone wouldn't ring. If Burns left a message, well, Smithers' phone would still get it. If it were an emergency, he'd be able to inform Smithers. At least Smithers wouldn't have to deal with potential drama though. _If it's important enough_ , Smithers thought, _he'll leave a voicemail_. He put his phone on the charger, grabbed his MyPod, cued up a playlist, and curled up on the couch, eyes closed. He hadn't intended to fall asleep like that, but somehow sleep found him nonetheless.

The following days at the Plateau City plant passed in a similar vein as his first. By Thursday, he was starting to get the routine down. He'd moved on from the painfully dull technical publications to watching the engineers perform routine maintenance.

Gary explained that next week, they were scheduled to have the spent rods removed and transported away.

"You'll be watching that, of course," he said. "I'll see if I can get you some practice with the crane as well. Maybe you can move a few rods or two."

Gary explained the procedure. It was, in theory, quite simple. The spent fuel rods were stored in the secondary containment area, in a pool by the reactor.

There was a bay over each reactor that could be filled with water. An adjoining door connected the reactor pool to the storage pool. Removing the spent rods from the reactor involved flooding the reactor itself, lifting out the spent rods (while keeping the underwater, of course), and moving them into the storage pool. There they were dropped into basket-like slots until the time came to remove them for disposal.

"We'll get you some time on the simulator tomorrow," Gary said brightly.

Smithers tried not to look impressed. The Springfield plant didn't have a crane simulator.

Heck, they didn't even have a crane!

The last time they'd had to move fuel rods at the Springfield plant, some unlucky chump from sector 7G had drawn the short straw. _Think of it like a game_ , Burns said with malevolent cheer, before shoving the hapless oaf into the pool. _Just dive down and bring them up. There's a good man. Just try not to drink too much of that atom water and you'll be fine._

The man had come out looking none the worse for wear… if one ignored the fact he'd grown a few extra eyes during the process. And a prehensile tail. Smithers had almost forgotten about the tail.

Smithers thought it best he not share this story with his new coworkers. Some things were best left unsaid.

Smithers finished up his shift, went home, and had the leftover burger for dinner. This weekend, he promised himself, he'd go grocery shopping and get back to eating healthy again. He went online, looked up the nearest grocery store, made a shopping list, tucked in, and went to bed.

The next morning came quickly, and he was eager to get some time in the simulator. Just as the day before, he got up, commuted to work, clocked in and headed to engineering to meet with Gary.

The first part of the day was spent going over fuel rod handling procedures. Proper ones, not with tongs or bare hands. The Plateau City plant had never had a case of radiation-induced mutation in all their years of operation. They didn't even had a "mutation free days" sign on the wall. When he'd left Springfield, Smithers recalled they were up to nearly seventy-five days without a new mutant being discovered. _If we keep up at this rate, why it will be a new record_ , Burns had crowed proudly.

Smithers gave a cough and shook his head. _Nope_ , he admonished himself. _You are not going to think of Monty Burns at all today_. He pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis.

Gary caught the motion.

"Is everything alright, Waylon?"

"Oh yes," Smithers replied, agreeably. "I'm just, very eager to begin training, that's all."

Gary grinned. "Glad to hear it. Here," he led the way, "the simulator's in this room. You'll be standing at an exact replica of the controls. Everything else is displayed on the screens around you." Gary went over the controls, then gave Smithers time to become acquainted with them. After Smithers felt confident Gary nodded. "Okay. I'm going to load some scenarios. We'll start with routine ones, and see how you do."

Smithers had never used a simulated reality system before. At first it felt like being surrounded by TV screens, but as the simulated image shifted and adjusted, it began to feel more real. Smithers found using the controls came naturally to him. It was no different, really, than playing a musical instrument or flying a small aircraft. He easily maneuvered the illusionary arm around, grasping the virtual rods and sliding them into their assigned tubes.

Gary's voice crackled through the speaker into the darkened room. "Good job. Now I'm going to give you a few problems. Hang on while I reset the computer."

The screens in the room went dark, then flashed to life.

Smithers began the scenario again. This time, as he was lifting one of the rods, it started to slide out of the claw.

Smithers felt his pulse quicken. He quickly lowered the claw, hoping the water pressure would work against the slipping rod. After several frantic moments, he regained control of it. Carefully, he lifted it from the core, through the gate between the pools, and dropped it into the slot.

"Nice!" came Gary's voice.

"I'm going to have you load the transport cask now. You'll be taking the baskets of spent rods, and placing them in the cask. For the sake of time, I'll start the program with the cask already placed in the pond."

The screens went dark, the computer reset, displaying the familiar virtual view of the pools. Smithers proceeded to grasp baskets of fuel rods, and slide them into a large, cylindrical drum. The first scenario was an ideal-situation program. The second scenario was more difficult. He grasped the basket, but the crane started to lose power. Smithers panicked, and tried hastily to raise the boom. The basket assembly containing fueling rods followed the motion of the crane, lifting it up out of the simulated pond, and dropping onto the catwalk. The screen went red, and the system powered down.

Gary's voice came through the speaker. "You know what you did wrong there?"

"Brought them out of the pond," Smithers replied breathlessly. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Want to try again? Same scenario?"

Smithers took a deep breath. It was easy to forget this was all just a simulation, especially with the real crane and storage pool just down the hall. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. "Okay," he said, placing his fingers at the controls, "I'm ready."

The scenario was repeated. This time Smithers kept the rods under water, but swung the basket against the side of the cask. Several rods shattered, and the screen went red.

"Do you want me to give you a hint?" asked Gary.

"No," replied Smithers, feeling his heart pond against his ribs. "I think I've got it."

"Let me know when you're ready for a reset."

Smithers stretched his arms, and rolled his shoulders. _Calm, calm…_ he told himself. No one ever told him how much simulated drills could cause _real_ heart palpitations.

This time, instead of trying to continue raising the boom, he released the basket of fuel rods gently into their slot in the pool, and let the arm drop into the water away from the rods or cask.

Gary ended the simulation. "That's as close to a victory as you're going to get," he remarked as he opened the door. Smithers shielded his eyes, temporarily blinded by the fluorescent light beyond. Gary continued. "We can always manually remove to boom with winches, but we can't repair fractured rods." He gave Smithers an approving look over. "You did pretty well for your first time in a sim, Waylon."

Smithers gave a modest shrug. "I've had some experience with running various machines. It wasn't so bad."

Gary grinned. "Well, next week, you'll have to come down for the main event. Who knows, you might even get a chance to handle some for real, Dimas-willing."

"Dimas-willing indeed," Smithers chuckled.

Gary glanced at his watch. "It's just about lunch time. What do you say we'll head over to the cafeteria a little early, avoid the rush."

They sat down at a table near the corner as the rest of the scheduled shift came in. Smithers was surprised to see Antoine casually saunter in. He was wearing a vibrant hawaiian shirt and sandals. He looked like he'd just come from the beach. Antoine saw Smithers and waved. He got his food, and sat down beside Gary.

"So, Waylon, haven't seen you since Monday. How's it been?"

Smithers filled Antoine in on his rounds with the simulator. Antoine listened intently, while wolfing his food down like a starving man. He nodded, mouth full, and gave Smithers a thumbs-up.

"So how've you been?" Smithers asked.

Antoine swallowed mightily. "I had to fly the bossman to Albany today for a meeting with the governor," he replied with a shrug.

"Dressed like that?" Smithers asked.

"Nah. I changed once I got back here. Mostly to annoy Preston." He grinned.

"Isn't Preston in Albany too?"

Antoine pursed his lips. "Good point. I guess I'm just doing it for casual Friday." He gave Smithers a toothy grin, and got up. "Well, it's been great chatting with you, but I've got to make sure the Little Diva's refueled and ready to pick them up tomorrow.

"They're staying overnight?"

Antoine shrugged. "Apparently. I've got my pickup scheduled at the governor's mansion by the Plaza at nine AM. Busy, busy."

"Wait," Smithers said, holding up a hand.

Antoine paused.

"Do you know of any place to work out around here? A good gym or something?"

Antoine furrowed his brow. "Not off the top of my head. I can't say I'm much of a gym-goer. I don't seem to find the time for it. Ah well, you folks enjoy the rest of your day. Oh, and Waylon? Me and some of the guys are going to the Lucky Lady tonight. You're welcome to come with if you want. You too, Gary." He smiled, bussed his tray, and left.

Gary glanced over at Smithers. "Do you think you'll go?"

Smithers shrugged. "I don't know. I'll probably sit this one out. I've already been there twice this week. What I really need to do is go grocery shopping."

"I'm not going either," admitted Gary. "I was going to take the wife and kids out to the movies tonight." He shook his head. "I'm too old to go out every night like that."

Smithers nodded. "I know what you mean." He glanced at his watch. It was almost time to get back to work. Gary noticed that too. The two men got up, bussed their trays, and headed back to engineering.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns sat by the phone, his hand hovering above the receiver. He wanted to pick it up and dial Smithers' number again, but even if Smithers answered, he wouldn't know what to say. He hadn't even been able to muster up enough gumption to leave a voice message.

He'd dial, wait while the phone rang, then he'd get Smithers' soft and familiar tenor: "Hi, you've reached Waylon's voicemail. You know what to do. _Beep_." After that, he'd panic and hang up.

Burns sighed. Another night alone. He shook his head regretfully. He'd assumed he could manage without Smithers. Hadn't he learned to be more independent over the years? Absolutely. It wasn't handling his daily affairs that bothered him. Aside from trying to train some of his current employees to handle Smithers' job-related duties, there wasn't much reasonably that he lacked.

He had a fully employed nuclear power plant.

He still had his household servants. Admittedly, he'd given them strict instructions to neither be seen, nor heard, but they were still there and taking care of his property out of sight. When it came to employing the common man, Burns liked the feeling of being alone.

There were very few people whose presence he could tolerate for long. In living memory, there were only three: Waylon Jr., Waylon Sr., and his old manservant Johan.

Years before Smithers Jr. was the liaison between him and his staff, Johan had been his head steward. An admirable employee and assistant, but not a friend the way of either Waylon Sr. or Jr. had been.

After Johan, but before Smithers Jr., there had been a butler (Burns couldn't remember his name) who hadn't panned out.

Smithers had eagerly started tending to many of the jobs the unnamed butler wasn't able to accomplish satisfactorily. Smithers' skills was what had eventually lead Burns to fire the man.

Once Smithers became his new majordomo, Smithers truly became an omnipresent feature in Burns' life. Burns found he enjoyed Smithers company more then he wanted to admit. He liked the idea of Smithers being his head steward at Burns Manor.

Then one fateful day, young Smithers applied for a job at the Springfield Plant. Initially Burns turned him down with all the intensity he could muster… Burns had never intended to let Waylon Jr. become an employee at the power plant. It wasn't because he doubted Smithers' abilities. It was completely because he couldn't bear the thought of an unanticipated mishap somehow claiming the young man's life. Burns Manor was far safer than a nuclear power plant.

For better or worse though, Burns had a change of heart. Less than twelve hours later, he was calling Smithers and telling the young man he had the job.

Ah, but that was then... and this was now.

Burns lifted the phone, fingers hovering above the keypad, then put it back down. He stared at it, willing it to ring. The phone stubbornly refused to comply.

If Burns had been a younger man, he would've gone out for a night ride on horseback around his estate. He used to keep several thoroughbreds, and one quarter-horse, for recreational riding. It was a way for him to get out and clear his head. These days, there was a chill in his bones that didn't seem to go away. The idea of a nightly trek about the grounds did not appeal. At this moment, all he wanted was to have Smithers at his side.

Burns had not expected to miss Smithers so soon. If he were to be honest, he figured he would hardly notice Smithers' absence. Burns hinged his entire plan on that assumption.

Patently, he had been wrong.

He got up from his writing desk and stalked off, leaving the unaccommodating phone behind.

Aimlessly he paced the empty expanse of Burns Manor. Eventually his wandering took him to the residential wing.

Burns Manor had originally been designed to house a large family, or provide accommodations for a great number of guests. Burns had neither; not that he regretted that fact. Friends, family, they'd get in his way. ( _Except Smithers_ , he thought despondently. He could have Smithers around.)

Like many rambling structures, Burns Manor had its fair share of secret nooks and crannies.

Burns slipped through a little known passage, the entrance of which appeared to be no more than a closet. The narrow route snaked between the walls and ended at the back of a second closet. He pushed his way through the clothes, into a large, dark room. Burns ran his hand along the wall till he found the light switch, and flicked it on. The bulbs came to live, revealing an elegant bedchamber, the likes of which paralleled his own opulent suite.

This room, however, was clearly one that rarely saw visitors. The main door had been sealed and hidden from the hall decades ago. Dust lay thickly across every surface. Despite the clear evidence of disuse, there was an almost palpable sense of anticipation in the air. It was if the very room itself was expecting the occupant to return any minute.

That would never happen.

Everything had been left just as it was the last time its resident had been there. Coat and scarf still hung by the sealed door. The bed had been casually made, blankets pulled up, but the pillow still showed the indent where someone had once rested their head. There was a drawing table in the corner, blueprints rolled in tubes and stacked neatly beside it. A baby grand piano, with candelabra atop, sat by the curtain-covered windows.

Burns walked slowly to a pair of wing chairs beside a large, marble fireplace, and sat down in one of them. A cloud of dust rose into the air, swirling around him in pale motes. He glanced to the small, round table between the two chairs.

The table held a few books, a notepad and a pencil, still sharp and eagerly awaiting use after all these years. He lifted a book and blew the dust off the cover. _The Complete Works of William Faulkner_. A bookmark was still in the middle.

Burns set the book down, not opening it. He sat and stared into the cold fireplace. On the mantle, a vase of long-dried daffodils sat next to a still anniversary clock. A clock that no one had wound in ages. Its hands frozen at 3:27.

Burns glanced at his watch. It was getting late, so late… and he was so very tired.

Burns felt suddenly exhausted. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

In his dreams, he was a young man again; traveling in Europe. His face was smooth, hair long brown locks. He was walking through the streets of Paris, a familiar companion by his side. Burns recognized him as Smithers' father. The man looked older than Burns remembered, and he didn't have glasses, but it was Waylon Sr. nonetheless.

Burns put his hands in his pockets and breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of the gardens. _Nice night_ , his companion remarked.

 _Beautiful_ , Burns agreed.

They walked through Paris, space and time taking on that fluid yet unquestioned way it can have in dreams. It didn't matter how they came to be where they were. Burns leaned over the railing of the Eiffel tower, and gazed at the city below. Waylon Sr. put his feet on the railing and stretched his body out as far as he safely could. He reached an arm around Burns shoulder in a casual sort of way. _There's the river,_ he said, gesturing to the Seine. _It matches the sky._

Burns looked up. Though the river was a ribbon of light, the sky was dark.

 _No stars_ , Burns remarked, looking up.

 _Can't you see them?_ Smithers asked. _I can see them._

Burns shook his head. He looked back to Waylon Sr., and realized he was now staring into the familiar face of Waylon Jr. instead. Smithers' brown eyes replaced his father's hazel ones. His expression was somewhat accusing.

 _Can't you see it?_ Waylon Jr. prompted. _Look closer. We can get closer._ He raised his hands out to either side, as if they were wings.

Burns stepped up onto the railing next to Smithers and spread his arms.

 _Don't fall, Monty_ , Smithers warned. _No one ever dies in their dreams._

 _I'm dreaming?_

 _Aren't we all?_

Burns puffed his young chest out and felt the night breeze blow through his hair. _I can't love you, you know_ , he told Smithers.

 _I'm not him_ , Smithers replied, gesturing to the sky. _I'm me. Stop comparing us._

 _It's wrong. I'd be betraying his trust. I'm supposed to look out for you._ Burns couldn't bear to say the name aloud.

 _Stop trying to make decisions that aren't yours to make_ , Monty, phantasmal Smithers replied. _I'm not my father, and I'm not your child. Don't treat me like either._

Smithers leaned further out into the open air.

 _What if I lose you? I'm not strong enough._ They were both precariously balanced on the rails, hung too far over to be safe.

 _Everything falls_ , Smithers replied nonchalantly.

 _What?_ Burns tried to turn, but his body over-balanced. He reached out into nothingness, hands clutching empty space. He reached out to grab Smithers' hand but the man was gone. The observation deck was empty. No one was there.

Burns jerked awake. It took him a moment to realize where he was. He'd fallen asleep in one of the chairs by the fireplace in Waylon Sr.'s old room. Burns groaned and ran his hands over his face. He'd had another intense dream.

What had it been? Something about Paris? Smithers? Parts were still fresh, but on the whole it was rapidly fading from memory. It all felt terribly important somehow.

He glanced at table. Quickly he snatched the notepad and pencil and jotted down as much as he could remember before he forgot it all.


	4. Chapter 4

Waylon Smithers wasn't quite sure what to do with his weekend. He went downstairs to the meager fitness room at the hotel, and lifted free-weights for a while. It wasn't the same as having a full gym, but it felt good to get his body moving. He also managed to finally get those groceries he'd been intending to pick up.

Saturday evening, he walked down to The Lucky Lady for a drink. Leon, the bartender he'd met the other night was on shift. He smiled and gave Smithers a friendly wave.

"Hey you," he said cheerfully as Smithers sat down. "Ready to try that CliffBoxer today?"

Smithers shook his head. "Beg your pardon?"

"The beer," Leon prompted. "From Plateau City Brewing."

Smithers shrugged. "Alright; sure!"

Leon filled a pint glass from the tap and passed it to Smithers. He glanced up and down the bar. It was busy, but no more so than one might expect for a Saturday. There was a second bartender on shift, a strong looking woman with unnaturally blond hair. She was dressed in a slightly revealing cowgirl themed ensemble, and was chatting with a group of young men at the other end.

Leon gave a glance up and down to see that none of the other patrons needed anything, then sidled over to Smithers.

"Here by yourself tonight?"

Smithers gave a shrug. "I didn't feel like sitting at home."

Leon nodded. "I don't blame you." He dried a few glasses and set them on the shelf behind the bar.

Smithers noticed Leon wore a gold ring in each ear. He hadn't remembered seeing them the other night. Leon was still wearing his cowboy hat and red bandana though. That much at least Smithers recalled. Smithers put an elbow on the bar, and rested his head in his hand. He took a sip of the CliffBoxer. Leon was right; it _was_ better than what he'd been drinking the other night.

After making another circuit around the bar, and tending to refills, Leon sauntered back to Smithers' stool. He leaned on the bar, put his head in his hand, and raised his eyebrows. "So," he began slowly, "what do you think of our little burg so far?"

Smithers took another sip of his beer. "It's nice," he replied. "I mean, I haven't really had a chance to do much exploring. I've only been here a week, and today I bought groceries."

Leon smiled, dark eyes twinkling in the subdued light. "I see you know how to have a good time."

Smithers laughed. "I don't know about that."

Leon stood up, removed his hat and ran a hand through his wooly hair. "Well, we're between the Capital District and New York City. We've got a nice mix of culture here." He placed his hat back on his head. "There's good times to be had if you're looking."

Smithers wasn't sure where this conversation was going. Was Leon hitting on him? He shook his head. Doubtful. Probably just being friendly. He pursed his lips, momentarily lost in thought, and took another long sip of his beer.

"Hey, where'd that look come from?" Leon asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking…" Smithers replied absentmindedly, his voice trailing off.

"Ah," Leon replied discretely. He pointed to Smithers' half-empty glass. "Will you be wanting another one?"

"I don't know," Smithers admitted.

"Do you have to drive?"

"No."

"Then you want another," Leon said decisively. "I'll wait till you've finished that," he added.

"Thank you," replied Smithers.

A server came over with a drink order, which Leon filled. Once he was done, he turned back to Smithers. "So, what brings you to our fair city on the cliffs?"

Smithers ran his fingers around the lip of his glass. He watched the bubbles trickling up from the bottom, like tiny beads. "Career opportunities, I guess."

Leon leaned back on the bar. "You _guess?_ You don't sound very certain about that."

Smithers shrugged. "Well, it wasn't what I planned to do." He lifted his glass and threw back the last ounces of beer in one fell swoop.

Leon grabbed a fresh glass, and poured him a second pint. He slid the glass to Smithers and put his chin in his palm. "Forced relocation?"

"Not exactly."

"Running away from something?"

"Eh," Smithers replied non-committedly.

Leon raised his eyebrows. "Running away from _someone?_ "

Smithers took a long sip. "I guess something like that."

"That person doesn't know what they're missing," Leon remarked casually.

Smithers didn't raise his eyes from his drink. "I don't think he ever knew…" he admitted dejectedly.

"Hey, don't get down," Leon nudged. "Change of scenery, new place, new job. It's a big world. I'm sure the right guy'll come along."

Smithers' head snapped up and he glanced around nervously. "Who said anything about guys?"

Leon gave him a knowing wink. "You did; when you said 'he.' Don't worry," he added, "I don't judge." He gestured to Smithers' glass. "Another?"

"I probably shouldn't."

Leon shrugged. "You should, and it'll be on the house."

Smithers held up his hands in surrender. "Well if that's the case…" he said with faint smile. "But after that I'm closing my tab."

"Fair enough."

Leon poured him another CliffBoxer, and handed it over. Smithers passed his credit card to Leon, who looked it over, front and back, before swiping it and handing it back. Smithers signed the receipt, and passed it back to Leon.

"There's another bar that you might like," Leon said, putting the receipt in a jar. "I bartend there too, mostly during the week. It's a, eh, singles bar; the sort where people can go to meet others with similar interests." He gave Smithers a knowing look.

"Oh…" said Smithers, catching the meaning.

"Here," Leon wrote the name and address down on a napkin and slid it over to Smithers. "It's called J. Vernie's, downtown. The patio has a great view of the river. I think you'll like the crowd, it's a very laid-back atmosphere."

Smithers finished his beer and smiled.

"Thanks, Leon. I'll have to check it out."

"No problem, Waylon. Hope to see you there."

Smithers paused. "How did you know my name?" he asked, somewhat confused.

Leon smirked, and gave a tip of his hat. "Just doin' my job," he said with a western twang. He winked. "Have a good night."

* * *

Monday morning, bright and early, the fuel rod relocation was already well underway by the time Smithers arrived on shift. The storage pool was divided into different sections, each area housing fuel rod assemblies of different ages. Most of the transporting had already been done, but a few basket-like assemblies had been left for Smithers.

Smithers glanced at Gary. "If you don't feel comfortable doing this," Gary whispered, "then don't do it. A little nervous is good, but not too much."

"I can manage," Smithers replied, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel.

This wasn't like the simulator. A single mistake here would require an emergency evacuation of the entire plant while the decontamination teams moved in. That was the best case scenario. At the very worst, a meltdown could occur, and Plateau City would have to be evacuated.

The engineer currently manning the crane glanced over at Smithers and Gary. Gary gave a twirling gesture with his hand, and the man stepped aside. _I'm not ready for this_ , Smithers thought nervously. _I can see the headlines now: Careless Employee Causes Nuclear Disaster._ He didn't stop though, his feet moved as if someone were guiding him forward.

 _Well, Waylon_ , he considered, _one can never be fully prepared for everything. Time to do it, old boy_.

Smithers took his place at the controls of the crane above the fuel rod storage pool.

A huge, cylindrical drum had been lowered in, just like in the simulation. The containment unit for the individual baskets of spent fuel rods. Dimas was there, Preston hovering nearby looking snooty. A team of guards was on standby as well. Whenever nuclear material was being moved, security got involved.

Smithers swallowed nervously and adjusted his bowtie.

Gary gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. "Take a deep breath, and relax. It's just like the sim." Gary hopped down from the platform and moved out of the way. Smithers energized the main controls, and checked the gauges. Carefully he moved the crane forward on its tracks, over the assemblies of rods to be moved. The fuel rod assemblies, the baskets, were spaced so that they could be easily grasped.

It was, he reflected, just like the simulator. He swung the arm into place and down, grabbing the first basket and slowly bringing it up. With great care and precision, he moved it over the open mouth of the cask, and slowly lowered it into the heavy cylinder. There was a moment of panic when he released the basket, fearing perhaps it hadn't been seated properly. He breathed a sigh of relief when the receptacle clamps locked over the top of the assembly.

There was only one basket of rods left.

Smithers quickly and easily moved it into place in the transport cask. Afterwards, he raised the crane, and gently settled it back in its cradle beside the pool. _So much easier than back at Springfield_ , he thought to himself. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. _Safer too_.

The engineers took over capping the cylinder before removing it from the pool. There was an access port on top. A hose was hooked up, pressurized gas pumped in, and the cooling water pumped out.

"Where's it going now?" Smithers asked as he and Gary headed towards the control room.

"Oh, dry storage at a location I can't disclose. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission authorized us to re-rack our spent assemblies, but Dimas doesn't want to do that. Our pools are rated for five hundred thirty assembly baskets total. There are a few plants that are holding more double their capacity."

"Really?" Smithers asked. "Why?"

Gary sat down at his desk. "Dry storage is expensive, and visible. The public doesn't want to know about it. You know, back in 2013 the nuclear plant a nuclear plant closer to Albany had some over-crowding issues in their pond."

Gary tapped his pen on the desk as he recalled the details. "Their pool was rated for two hundred sixty-four assemblies. Last known amount they had was over twelve hundred."

Smithers sat down at the table and started pulling out log books to document the transfer. "How is that even legal!? Shouldn't someone report them to the NRC?"

Gary gave a barking laugh. "Report? Hah, Waylon! The NRC signed off on it! 'Add boric acid to the water, you'll be fine,' they said. 'Once you reach capacity, then we can consider dry storage!' Hah, Dimas didn't buy that. Especially with the NRC constantly redefining what they call 'capacity.' He's been lobbying New York and Congress to open more repositories for dry storage." Gary jotted down some figured and peered at Smithers, his round face creasing slightly. "Seriously, you didn't know about this?"

Smithers looked away, abashed. "Well, Mister Burns never really discussed with me the transport procedures for the spent rods."

"They're not all still in your pool, are they?" Gary asked probingly. Gary was clearly not a master of subtle interrogation.

Smithers shook his head. "They're fished out and transported…" his voice trailed off. _Fished out_ , ah, if Gary only knew how literally he meant that phrase. _What_ does _Mister Burns do with the used plutonium_ , he found himself wondering. He knew Burns made a few illegal deals now and then, but their cooling pools were rarely crowded. _I should ask Mister Burns next time I see- Nope!_ he interrupted himself. _I don't care anymore. Not my problem_.

He pressed down firmly with the pen and finished his logs.

Gary watched silently.

Smithers finished up the rest of the week uneventfully. Friday afternoon, Preston brought him before Thaddeus Dimas.

Dimas was seated in a leather chair behind a modern looking desk. "Waylon, my boy, come in!" he greeted Smithers warmly, extending a hand. Smithers shook his bear-like hand, and sat down in a chair Dimas indicated. The fact that Dimas was close to his own age, and yet still called him boy: Smithers wasn't sure if he should be flattered, or insulted. He had to admit he _looked_ younger than Dimas.

"So I saw you helping move the rods Monday. First time, eh? What did you think of it?"

"It was… it was nerve-wracking," Smithers replied with a modest laugh.

Dimas nodded. "If that's how you felt, you didn't show it. Gary's been speaking highly of you; but I want to hear your views. So, Waylon, how are things going for you here?"

Smithers thought for a minute. "It's a great opportunity to get to work here, Mister Dimas. I've probably learned more about the fundamental workings of a nuclear generating station in two weeks here than I have in all my years at Springfield."

Smithers tried to smile as he spoke. As much as he wanted to look cheerful, Burns' cutting words, and his undesired departure, were still raw. _'Sometimes the pain cuts so deep, you must lock it away,'_ his mind quoted.

"I was surprised to learn you were campaigning so heavily for dry storage of nuclear waste," Smithers admitted.

"Ah yes, a touchy subject," Dimas interlaced his thick fingers and narrowed his small, dark eyes. "It's never been an environmental issue, only a political one. I know Monty Burns always finds ways to circumvent the system," he added almost wistfully.

Smithers shifted uncomfortably. "Mister Burns has connections I don't know about."

Dimas made a dismissive gesture. "I don't care if you do. What he chooses to do with his plant all the way on the other side of the country is his business. I have my own plant to run." Dimas eyed Smithers up and down. "I'm sure, if you join the fold, you'll find your own methods that suit you."

"You mean a permanent position here?" Smithers asked, slightly confused.

Dimas gave his trademark belly laugh. "Oh, my boy, let's not jump the gun! You've only been here two weeks. How do you even know this is where you'd like to stay?"

Smithers fidgeted uneasily. Despite Dimas' friendly demeanor, Smithers could not forget the man was a politically-connected 'atom baron.' At the end of the day, most of these people were all the same: their bottom line was the only one that mattered.

In the back of his mind, Smithers wondered if he were being too cynical in his assessment of Dimas. The man had been nothing but welcoming.

"I like what I've seen of the city," Smithers admitted. "Everything's close together. It makes things easier."

Dimas smiled warmly. "Glad to hear that, Waylon. Plateau City's got a neat history. Did you know once upon a time it was planned to be the capital of New York. Albany beat out Plateau City merely be ease of access. It was decided the palisades made it too hard to get here." Dimas chortled as if at some private joke. Smithers wasn't sure he saw the humor.

"Have you been down to Monument Park?" Dimas asked. "It overlooks the river, has a handful of statues of famous people. That's how it got the name. It's no 'Empire State Plaza,' but it's a nice place to visit."

"I'll be sure to stop there."

"You do that." Dimas paused thoughtfully. "How are you making on with your team? The rest of my people? I know Gary thinks you must walk on water…"

Smithers blushed.

"I'm getting to know a few people."

"Good. No man's an island, Waylon. It can be hard moving to a new town, regardless the reason. I just want you to know that the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station family is here for you." He gestured to his office. "I have an open door policy. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, sir." Smithers bowed his head graciously.

"You're welcome Waylon." He lifted up a stack of papers and leafed through them. "It looks like you're scheduled to finish with Gary this week, then you'll be transferred over to infrastructure." He raised an eyebrow. "Of course, we don't need to rush things. Or, we can always rotate you back through. Monty didn't say how long I'd have you." He tapped the stack of papers on the desk to straighten them, and passed them over to Preston.

Smithers gave a weak shrug. "He didn't tell me either."

Dimas laughed. "That man's a maverick," he chuckled. "Well, I'll keep you here as long as either of you wants. I mean, I'm not holding you against your will, you know where the door is. But if you want to stay, I'm in no rush to see you go." He glanced at Preston. "I can always use a second in command around here."

Preston stiffened. "But, Mister Dimas, as your personal assistant, and valedictorian of my class, you need me to ensure everything is done properly!" he babbled, clearly flustered.

Dimas patted Preston's arm. "There, there. You're not going anywhere. But Waylon Smithers here does have quite the impressive background, don't you think?"

Preston huffed indignantly. "If you consider a degree from a community college impressive."

Dimas smirked. "Don't discount experience, Preston. That's something you recent graduates always tend to forget about. A degree is just a piece of paper."

Preston didn't reply. He gave Smithers an icy look through his round-rimmed glasses, grabbed his tablet, and stalked off.

Dimas watched him go. Smithers followed the man's gaze apprehensively. "Oh, don't worry about Preston," Dimas reassured. "He takes himself very seriously. He needs to learn to lighten up a bit. Having you here is good for him, whether or not he realizes that."

Dimas ran a hand through his short, black hair. "I have to get back to these figures. I've got a second meeting in Albany in a few weeks, but there's never enough time it seems to get everything ready. Still," he added, "if there's anything we can do to help you out here, my door's always open to you."

The meeting was at an end. Smithers rose, giving an awkward half-bow, and retired to his office nearby.

He wished Dimas hadn't mentioned Mister Burns. It felt like even now he was living in the old plutocrat's shadow. He turned on the computer and brought up a map of Plateau City.

Monument Park was located at the cultural center of downtown.

Out of curiosity, he decided to look up the bar Leon had mentioned, J. Vernie's.

Ah, that was convenient. J. Vernie's was at the north-east end of the city center, just across the marble expanse of Monument Park. There was an art museum as well. The Lowry Gallery, it was called. Smithers enjoyed museums. He'd always had a fondness for classical art since he could remember.

He smiled. It might be early in the week, but at least he had his weekend planned. As long as he could stay busy, he could easily keep his mind Burns-free.

* * *

 _Author's Note_

 _Everything about the condition of over-crowding in the spent rod cooling pools is completely accurate, including the numbers (rated for 264 assemblies, currently holding 1,218 of the things). You can find instructions for re-racking on the NRC's pages. The overcrowding in the cooling ponds is something I try not to think about at night. You'll probably sleep better if you don't think about it either._


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday was grey and smelled of rain, but in a pleasant way. Smithers always secretly liked that sort of weather. Everything felt cool and soft. Plateau City was covered in a soft mist, and bathed in the tangy brine-scent of the Hudson River.

Smithers grabbed a few brochures from the rack by the front desk, and read them while he waited for the bus. He'd been to New York City a few times, always with Burns; and always for business, though up till recently business and pleasure had been one in the same for him. He'd never really explored NYC, though he and Burns had gone to see an opera once. It was about as much metropolitan culture as he'd had occasion to experience there.

Plateau City, according to the brochures, had an interesting blend of old and modern culture. It had been settled by the Dutch in 1610, several years before Albany; and it had been a point of trade between the Dutch and the native peoples: primarily the Mohawk, but also Mohican.

When the English took over the Dutch settlements in 1664, effectively renaming "New Amsterdam" into "New York," they disregarded Plateau City.

Albany was located at the junction of the Hudson and Mohawk rivers. Water access drove commerce. Albany was also much more accessible to trade than Plateau City four hundred feet above the river. So while the city of Albany got to be the center of New York trade, Plateau City almost faded into obscurity.

The dwindling city was resurrected in the 1860s during the Civil War, and again during the Draft Riots. Plateau City's commanding view of the Hudson made it an important guard post. There was once an old fort built right on the edge of the cliffs: Fort Heldel. It had been named for a soldier who sat manning a single canon on the cliff edge while they built the fort around him, or so, admitted the brochure, the story went.

While the original fort had been destroyed, there was a plaque at the site, and a true-to-history reconstruction at the southern end of Plateau City.

Smithers found himself shaking his head in surprise as he got off the bus. He had always thought of Springfield as an old city. It had been settled in 1796. Reading about Plateau City inadvertently forced him to chance his perspective. Here he was in a city that had been settled nearly two hundred years before Springfield, and played a part in the Civil War. Living out west, the sense of how old the United States was had been crammed into the westward expansion of the 1880s. In his mind, Springfield had been an old town; or at least he used to think it was.

Smithers folded the brochures and stuck them into the pocket of his windbreaker. He didn't want to look like a tourist, wandering around with his nose stuck in a "Welcome to the Plateau!" pamphlet.

His daily plan was simple: he'd visit the park, then head over for an afternoon at the art gallery. If he was still feeling up to it, and he expected he would, he'd stop by J. Vernie's and check out the scene.

Smithers was always slightly nervous going to unfamiliar 'singles' clubs. He wasn't ashamed of being who he was, but he felt more comfortable keeping his preferences out of the public eye. Of course, everyone in Springfield apparently knew. Everyone except Burns, of course. Everyone always said: don't fall for straights. Easier said than done. Smithers remembered the first time he realized the nature of his feelings towards his boss…

… And here he was thinking of Mister Burns again. Smithers stuffed his hands into his coat pocket. _No_ , he reprimanded himself sharply. _You are not going to start that._ _For god's sake, get your head out of your ass, Waylon, and move on! And_ , he added, _you're already thousands of miles away! Chin up and go have fun._

Inspired by his own internal pep-talk, Smithers leaned back and took a deep breath of the salty air. He loved the sea smell. He never realized how strong it could be, even this far away from the ocean. It must have something to do with the river, he thought, smiling slightly.

So thinking, Waylon Smithers set off to explore on the wonderfully overcast day.

Smithers' first planned stop on his route was Monument Park. The entire site was circular, and paved in marble. There were several tiers leading down to a fountain at the center. It was aptly named for the marble statues of the various historic figures. There was one of Dalworth Heldel crouched next to a cannon, an Iroquois warrior dressed for battle, a Revolutionary War soldier… Beside each larger-than-life sculpture was a plaque. They contained a small story, or a quote.

There was an odd feeling to Monument Park. It was like being at a memorial, rather than a spot for recreation. Peaceful though. Smithers walked quietly between the pale figures, lost in thought. Monument Park was a place of remembrance.

Smithers paused in front of a sculpture of a woman, sculpted in modern business attire. Her marble hair was short, her face almost regal, if a little sad. Her lifelike eyes were focused on something beyond the horizon. "Marion 'Jade-Eyes' Queneau; gone but never forgotten. 'How brave a soul that runs towards danger to save the lives of others." There was a date of birth, and a date of death. The latter was "September 11, 2001."

Smithers gulped silently, an unexpected wave of emotions threatening to spill over. He remembered the 9/11 attacks. From the safety of Springfield, it felt like a tragedy that might as well have happened on the other side of the world.

Standing, looking up at Marion's statue made it deeply real. He lifted his glasses down and wiped his eyes. He hadn't expected tears to come. There was something about the monuments. They were beautifully sculpted to elicit emotions. They did just that.

Smithers walked down to the reflecting pool at the center, and watched the fountain while he regained his composure. It reminded him of a song. He pulled his MyPod out of his coat pocket, and queued up this song, _Walking in Memphis_ , by Marc Cohn. It seemed to fit the mood.

Music in his heart and soul, Smithers walked silently though the park, lost in thought and the unbidden flow of emotions.

 _Do I really feel the way I feel?_

* * *

C. Montgomery Burns had come to dread weekends in Smithers' absence. Without the daily goings on of running a nuclear plant to keep him preoccupied, keeping his mind from thinking about Smithers became a herculean task.

He wandered back up the abandoned room in the residential wing. He didn't like going up there, but it was the one place he could silence the ghosts.

He pulled the dark green curtains open, letting daylight filter into the room for the first time in decades. It made the dust seem all that more thick, seeing it float like tiny galaxies through the bright air. The room was stuffy. Burns braced himself against the jamb and pushed open the French doors that lead to the balcony.

The fresh air happily bounded into the room like an eager puppy, ruffling Burns' hair, and sending the dust scattering. Burns coughed, waving a hand before his face. The room was still desperately in need of a good cleaning. He didn't want anything moved, per se. He just wanted the entire place freshened up.

On the mantle was a small grey cardboard box. Burns had almost forgotten he'd left it there; almost. He crossed over and lifted it down. The box was slightly larger than a deck of playing cards, and heavier than one might expect. Burns already knew what was inside, but he hadn't looked in years. Once, a long time ago, he'd brought it to this room with Smithers, his young Smithers, intent on giving it to the man.

The time hadn't seemed right, and Burns sadly left the box behind.

Burns pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. He massaged the spot between his eyes, trying to sort out what he felt. The box sat heavy, waiting, in his other hand. At long last, he opened his eyes and regarded the innocent object with a deep intensity.

It was something he'd had made years ago. Decades ago. A gift.

It hadn't been a bribe, or a payment. It had been an impulsive and unselfish act.

Burns sighed and gently lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled under several pads of cotton, was a gold pocket watch. It wasn't just any watch. It was a one-of-a-kind piece he'd had specifically crafted for his partner when they were both much younger men. A gift, to Waylon Smithers (Sr.), because he wanted the man to know how much he cared.

The cover of the watch had been sculpted into the regal countenance of a lion, full mane framing its face, and black diamond eyes shining with their own intense fire. He and Waylon Sr. had been on a business trip to Capital City. He wanted to give Waylon Sr. something truly special. The watch had been made in Europe, and Burns frantically awaited its arrival, fearful that it would come after they'd already left.

Each day, he'd send Johan to check the mail before Waylon got to it.

Keeping a secret from Waylon was a monumental task in and of itself. The man had been brilliant; no, beyond brilliant, a true genius! Very little escaped his notice. Burns had been so proud to actually surprise Waylon with such a gift.

Burns lifted the watch out carefully by its gold chain. He squeezed the crown, and the lion's face flipped down, revealing the watch face within. The interior face itself was unremarkable: the standard twelve spaces and two hands. It was the engraving inside the cover that truly made the watch special.

 _To Waylon Joseph Smithers; For not every man's heart beat is that of the Lion. Forever as Yours; CMB._ There was a date as well, the date that Waylon had started working with Burns. It was the closest thing to an anniversary they'd ever had. Waylon left this world far too soon.

Burns felt a lump come to his chest as he looked at the watch.

Whether Waylon had some sixth-sense, or whether it was just his nature to always be prepared, he'd had a will made while he lived at Burns Manor. He was able to get that done without Burns even being aware of it. For all Burns liked to think himself the sneaky one, Waylon always did have the upper hand there, Burns remembered with a sad smile.

Waylon had left a letter with his will. The great tragedy of the matter were the things he couldn't discus in the will. He'd done his best to include Burns, but it was never that simple. Their relationship had been a tightly kept secret. Even Waylon's wife never knew the truth about her husband and his unspoken lover.

After Waylon was gone, Burns had to watch Waylon's family come together and support each other, while he was left to deal with his own grief alone. He'd stayed on the outside, watching as if through a thick window. Some fundamental aspect of him changed, following Waylon's death. A part of him had died as well.

He remembered the words Waylon had included in the letter, regarding the watch.

 _The handsome watch you gave me, the letter read, is yours as well. Please keep it safe, and in time, I want you to give it to my son when he's older. I can't say how old he need be; I trust you to know when the time is right._

Burns clutched the watch so tightly his knuckled turned white. When the time is right. Oh how easy those words were to say from across the grave. Anger flared up. How on earth was he, C. Montgomery Burns, American, Patriot, and Master of the Atom supposed to know when the so-called time was right?

"He might as well have asked me to drain the ocean with a thimble," Burns fumed aloud. _Though_ , he added silently, wistfully, _if he'd asked I damn well would've tired_.

Burns shook his head. Since he'd known Waylon's son, Smithers Jr., there had been so many times Burns thought could be _the_ time to present the watch. When the moments arrived, however, Burns lost his nerve.

There was a time once, when it appeared the world was ending at sundown, that Burns had planned to give the watch to Smithers. He'd put it in his pocket while they, and the rest of the Springfieldians had climbed to the top of the hill overlooking the town to await the apocalypse.

Burns reached his hand into his pocket to grab the watch, but Smithers (as usual) had made it awkward.

 _Oh, what the hell_ , Smithers announced. He grabbed Burns by the shoulders, and pulled the older man in for a kiss on the lips.

Burns went rigid. It was so unexpected all he could do was freeze and stare mutely as Smithers' embrace came to an all-to-quick end. Burns gasped in surprise, expression stunned. He started to reach into his pocket to pull out the watch, but then that little Simpsons girl had started talking; then that crazy stunt with the fake angel… and the moment was so beyond "passed" that Burns knew better than to even try. He'd repocketed the watch sadly, and acted as if nothing had ever happened.

Standing in Waylon Sr.'s old room, Burns sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands.

The trouble with living as long as he had was simple: sooner or later everyone he ever got close to wound up dead.

In his own subconscious logic, as long as he kept Smithers at arm's length, somehow, perhaps, Smithers could live forever with him. He knew that theory didn't rationally make sense. Smithers could be hit by a car tomorrow, and it would have no bearing on whether he, C. M. Burns confessed his confused feelings or not.

The only thing Burns wasn't confused on was the fact that Smithers was the one person who truly made his enduring life actually worth living.

Burns leaned over and grabbed the pillow off the bed. He wrapped his arms around it and hugged it to his chest. It still smelled like Waylon Sr. after all these years.

 _It's time to let it go, Monty_ , he heard Waylon's voice in his head. _Even ghosts have to rest eventually._

Burns buried his face in the pillow. _I'm not strong enough_.

 _You're as strong as you make up your mind to be,_ he imagined Waylon chiding him gently. The breeze from the open window swirled around him, catching the dust and sweeping it outside. _It's time to let me go. That doesn't mean forget. It just means move on._

Burns lifted his face from the pillow. He hadn't realized he'd been crying. The silk pillowcase was stained from his tears. He took a deep breath and straightened his back. What was this room but a memorial? A bodyless tomb? A prison for memories?

He got up and walked to the outline in the wall where the door to the hall had once been.

How long, he wondered, had it really been. Years seemed to lose their meaning after a while.

The wind gusted unexpectedly.

The papers and book on the table by the fireplace caught the current and blew to the floor. Burns walked over and picked them up. It was Waylon's copy of Faulkener's works. The book had landed open at the bookmark. A folded sheet of paper had slip out. Burns felt a swelling of nostalgia at the scene. His dear Waylon could never read anything without making notes. He picked up the book, glancing at the text.

 _For a long while we just stood, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him… and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust._

Burns felt an oddly sour taste in his mouth, like bile. He swallowed uncomfortably.

Reluctantly, but unable to stop, he lifted the folded piece of paper and read it.

It was scribbled in Waylon's neat handwriting; with the same stream-of-conscious style Burns had overseen when the man was writing away in his journal.

 _'_ _Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.' The greatest tragedy in life is not the nature of death, but the way it works its will upon the living. The second greatest tragedy is when we spend so much time fearing death we forget how to live. Monty showed me the secret to his long life today, and gave me a choice to share it. What would life be like, I wonder, to live beyond normal years? I can't imagine, but it's a choice I must decline. Mankind wasn't meant to live forever, or cling to things beyond death. I'll grow old and watch my children grow strong. Then, when it's time, I'll die. It's not death that I fear. I'm afraid of what I'll leave behind when I go. The only thing that worries me is leaving Monty to grow old alone._

Burns ran his fingers over the words.

Everything he thought he knew had changed. Waylon must've had some preternatural gift, some foresight. Or maybe he simply was that keenly intuitive.

"I'm living his greatest fear," Burns murmured softly.

The epiphany was mind-bending. Burns tucked the book and note up under his arm. The box containing the watch was in his pocket. He left the room through the clandestine passage through the closet, and leaned against the wall out in the main corridor.

When he'd ordered Johan to seal Waylon's room decades ago, he never expected to ever regret the decision. He put his hand where the door used to be. The plaster felt slightly different from the rest of the main hallway. Burns shook his head.

Two weeks, or was it three, and he was completely losing his mind, he feared.

He summoned his current steward, and ordered the man get a work crew in immediately.

"I want this door reopened," he said gesturing to the blank wall behind him. "And I expect it match exactly with the construction of this wing."

The steward nodded, not seeing any evidence of door, but knowing better than to argue with the whims of Monty Burns. The man was rich, eccentric, and prone to wild mood swings. Perhaps there was a door there. The steward scurried off, eager to remain unseen as ordered.

Burns made a fist and chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully.

What would he do once that room was reopened?

He was sure he had no idea, but whatever it might be, it was time to do it.

Whistling an unusually cheerful tune, he turned and trotted off to the veranda, book still tucked under his arm.


	6. Chapter 6

The Lowry Gallery reminded Smithers a bit of Burns Manor. It had originally been a house built by a wealthy couple, surname "Lowry," naturally. Harris Lowry had been a merchant, who had then apparently spent a good chunk of his time travelling the world with his wife, Louise, and buying art.

Smithers always loved classic art. He had a special fondness for the highly detailed pieces of the Renaissance period. His appreciation hadn't been learned; it was innate.

The first time Smithers had ever been to Burns Manor - as a child he'd tried sneaking in as a child, and got caught by Johan - his eyes had been drawn to the artwork on the walls. He would've loved to wander the halls, looking at the pieces. That didn't happen though. Burns had sized him up, then had his manservant drive Smithers home.

Ultimately though, Smithers' life seemed to be fated to cross paths with Mister Burns. Young Smithers spent much of his childhood at the Manor under Burns' watchful eye. The older man treated Smithers like an apprentice in many ways, and allowed Smithers to pursue hobbies like painting and music. Hobbies, Smithers reflected, that his step-father always thought a waste of time.

Smithers supposed he owed Burns at least for indulging his classical tastes.

Smithers paused in front of a well-known Botticelli piece. Like so many of the artist's works, it was an illustration of Christian iconography. He adjusted his earbuds and regarded the piece thoughtfully.

Like so many pieces of the time, it was hardly an image. Literacy was a gift most people didn't have. Stories were told through art. All one had to do was learn to read the camouflaged signs. Burns didn't see that though, Smithers reflected. Burns collected art as a display of wealth. And sure, Smithers reflected, Burns _liked_ the pieces he hung on the walls, but Burns never truly _understood_ them!

There was a world of difference between appreciating the aesthetics of a satyr mourning over a nymph who was supposedly killed accidentally... and being able to understand the defensive wounds on her hands.

Smithers moved on through the gallery, mind alternating between artwork, and Mister Burns.

Looking at something, or someone, was far different from actually seeing them.

Smithers had tried explaining the stories to Burns. _See_ , he'd said, indicating the satyr painting on one of their trips, _she was murdered_.

Burns had scoffed. _Smithers, don't be daft_. _It says here she was clearly killed accidentally during a hunt._

 _It_ says _that_ , Smithers protested, gesturing to Burns' brochure. _But this!_ he gestured emphatically, _shows otherwise!_

Burns gave Smithers a condescending look. _Who made you the art history scholar, hmm? Because last time I knew, you were just my meager assistant. I'm done with this nonsense; let's go._

Smithers had dutifully fallen into step behind Burns. _Why do we always fight on vacation,_ he muttered.

Smithers shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. Burns had a way of not appreciating things. It had always been so obvious. Smithers mentally kicked himself. Why had it taken him twenty years, and over two thousand miles to realize that?

He paused, staring up at an intricate Tintoretto piece, _The Miracle of St. Mark Freeing the Slave_.

 _Thanks, Jacopo_ , he thought, regarding the piece with a chuckle. _Way to drive home the point_. Smithers selected a lively track on his MyPod, and continued his tour of the galleries.

Smithers easily could've spent all day at the Lowry museum. It wasn't a huge institution, but the galleries were spaced in such a way that one could happily wander for hours, lost in thought. Around mid-day, he meandered to the small but modern Lowry Café, and ordered a sandwich. It was one of those 'artisan grilled panini' things, with blend of veggies and mozzarella cheese. A tad over-priced, but still tasty.

Smithers glanced at his phone.

No incoming calls, no text messages. A few new emails, all work-related. He flipped over to social media. There wasn't much going on with his small network. The biggest news was that his cousin, Caroline, was expecting. He'd almost forgotten she and Adam finally got married. They'd had a small, discrete ceremony the other year.

 _I'm going to be an uncle!_ he thought, astonished. He clicked "like" and then added a comment, "Congratulations!"

Technically, Smithers would be a cousin to her child, but he and Caroline had grown up together for the first several years of their lives. They shared a bond more like siblings than cousins; with the good and bad that came with it. Fortunately, there was more good than bad.

Caroline had always been one of his closest friends and a trusted confidant. She was the first person he 'came out' to, the only one he'd officially told. Everyone else figured it out eventually, on their own.

Caroline didn't judge. They'd sit around and laugh about the types of guys they liked, who was cute and who was not. After she'd gotten married and moved out of Springfield, they'd drifted apart a bit. _I should shoot her a message later_ , Smithers thought. He also realized he hadn't written to his mother in a while. _I'll send her a letter too_. He could probably pick up some post cards at the gift store. He'd send one to Caroline, and one to his mother.

He would not send one to Mister Burns.

Smithers glanced at the clock on his phone. That club Leon suggested, J. Vernie's was open now. He'd give it another hour before he headed over. He didn't want to seem desperate. Better to let some of the regulars arrive, he figured.

According to the brochure, the gift shop had several postcards of various artworks, some from the Lowry collection, some from other galleries. He decided he'd pick up several: one for Caroline, one for his mother, and a few for himself.

Smithers had a modest post-card collection. They sat on the shelves of his apartment, adding a diverse backdrop for his Malibu Stacy dolls. After moving out on his own, Smithers was finally able to indulge his passion of collecting the fashion dolls without garnering scorn from his step-father. It had been partially an act of rebellion, and partially genuine interest. Over the years, his Malibu Stacy collection had grown from a small hobby to a downright passion.

His Malibu Stacy collection, like his 'lifestyle choice' wasn't something he casually brought up to strangers, but it wasn't a secret to those who knew him. Smithers had achieved a small amount of fame in the Malibu Stacy community for the musical he wrote.

He finished his sandwich. At least, he reasoned, he'd been able accomplish that goal.

In the back of his mind a little voice chimed in, reminding him something he'd almost forgotten: Mister Burns. Oh sure, Burns had mocked him for making a play about a doll, but he'd granted Smithers time off to do it. And opening night, although Smithers never saw Burns' face in the audience, he came back to find two dozen long-stemmed roses, and a bouquet of sunflowers in his dressing room.

The roses, Smithers reasoned, could've come from anyone. But the sunflowers? That was sort of an unspoken thing he and Burns shared. It went all the way back to Smithers' childhood, when he and Burns would take a ride out to the fields beyond Springfield. Acres of sunflowers, stretching as far as the eye could see; and Smithers gathering them by the armload to take home.

In all honesty, roses were a common enough flower. They might've even come from one of his co-stars. The sunflowers? That was more coincidence than he could completely ignore.

Neither of the bouquets came with a card.

Smithers had been left wondering if maybe, just maybe…

He sighed, shook his head and carried his plate back to the counter.

It had to have been a coincidence, nothing more he told himself. Whatever he wanted to believe, how badly he wished, didn't make it true. Hope could lead the heart down dangerous paths.

Time to go get those postcards, and head to J. Vernie's.

* * *

J. Vernie's was easily recognizable. It was part of a block of shops and restaurants just beyond Monument Park. A rainbow triangle, and the phrase "safe space" were posted on the front door, above a smaller sign that announced "come as you are, but leave your angst at the door;" and, curiously enough, a picture of an octopus.

Smithers removed his earbuds, stuffed his MyPod in his pocket, gave himself a mental pep talk, and headed in.

The bar itself was fairly crowded, but the atmosphere was relaxed. People congregated in groups by the pool table, or settled into the high-backed booths along the walls. The bar, wooden with brass accenting, filled the back wall. The bar was backed by various tiles that alternated through the entire spectrum, fading almost hypnotically from one hue to the next.

Smithers took a moment to check out the decorations. There were images of men and women in Victorian attire, retro-futuristic looking contraptions, and more of the octopus theme. The walls were paneled wood, accented with brass gewgaws, and gears that didn't seem to attach to anything. The high ceiling had several pipes, and what appeared to be cam-shafts running the length of it, between the dim lights.

Some of the people there were, in fact, were dressed similar to the pictures.

One of the patrons noticed him looking around and gave him a friendly smile. Smithers smiled back, gave a social nod, and ambled over to the bar.

He almost didn't recognize Leon.

Leon was wearing a black top hat, purple vest with a double row of gold buttons, and a gold cravat. He had a pair of goggles atop the brim of the top hat, and large hoop earrings in both ears. He recognized Smithers immediately, and waved him over.

"Hey Waylon," he said beaming, "glad you decided to come over. Welcome to J. Vernie's. What can I get you tonight?"

"Do you have CliffBoxer?"

"Does the Pope wear a pointy hat?" Leon laughed and filled a glass from the tap. "Tab or…"

"Tab," Smithers replied, leaning against one of the leather bar chairs and checking out the room.

"So," Leon pried, "what do you think?"

Smithers sipped his beer. "To be honest, I don't quite get the theme," he admitted.

"You're not into steampunk?"

"What's steampunk?"

Leon drew himself back, clutching a hand to his chest dramatically. "'What's steampunk?' _What's steampunk_? Oh honey, you don't know?" He tisk-tisked, and shook his head in exaggerated sympathy. "Well, the short answer is it's a genre, an art, and a fashion style inspired by the future imaginings of the Victorian era."

Smithers took another sip, trying to imagine it.

Leon easily picked up on Smithers bemusement.

"Imagine, if you will," Leon began, "modern technology powered by steam, and set two hundred years ago. There's a huge emphasis on aesthetics: polished metal, oiled leather, sanded wood… that sort of thing. Like the works of H. G. Wells… or," he raised an eyebrow, "Jules Verne."

The light dawned! Smithers snapped his fingers. "Ah! The name, J. Vernie's! Jules Verne!" He beamed.

Leon gave him a toothy grin. "See, you get it. We used to be pretty underground, then steampunk went mainstream and the hipsters from Plateau Community College starting coming over for the atmosphere." Leon paused, noting Smithers' concerned expression. "Don't worry, honey, they're chill and respectful. The straights know what they're getting into here. Don't feel shy."

Smithers took a long sip of his CliffBoxer and eyed Leon with mock-reproach. "I'm not shy," he said, thinking of all the times he hadn't told Mister Burns how he felt. "I'm just not…" he paused, and fidgeted with the coaster under his drink for a minute. "Yeah… I guess I am a bit shy."

Leon gave his arm a playful shove. "So what are you doing telling me about it? Why don't you get out there and mingle? Ellis, by the pool table, he's always looking for someone to play against. Why don't you challenge him to a game?"

Smithers laughed and readjusted his glasses. "Oh no. I haven't played pool since highschool. I wouldn't stand a chance."

Leon laughed warmly. "I said he was always looking for someone to play against. I never said he was any good! Go on, Waylon, stop yappin' at me and get yourself out there!" Leon took a step back and tipped his hat. He made a shooing gesture, and starting wiping down some glasses.

Smithers chuckled inwardly. So that's how Leon was going to play it? Fair enough. He ambled over to the pool table. The man Leon had indicated, Ellis, was leaning against the wall, casually sipping a drink.

Smithers caught his eye, and gave him a nod. "So," he began, "care for a match?"

Ellis grinned. "Absolutely!" Ellis was a substantial man, not particularly tall, but build like a Mack truck, stout and muscular. His head was shaved, but his beard was that of a biker's. He wore a white tanktop, and green cargo pants. He had a leather cuff on his right arm, and a silver ring in his left ear. "Play much?" he asked casually.

Smithers selected a pool cue from the wall, and fished a few quarters out of his pocket. "Not in years," he admitted.

Ellis grabbed a cue in his bearlike paw, and chalked the tip. "That's what they all say," he said good-naturedly, passing the chalk to Smithers.

Smithers hung his windbreaker of the back of a nearby chair and started racking up the balls. "This time it's true," he said laughing. He started putting the pool balls in the triangle rack. He slid them to the center of the table.

Ellis leaned over next to Smithers, moved a few balls around, and lined the rack of with the middle diamond of the pool table. "The one-ball always goes at the top, the eight-ball in the middle," he explained. He gave Smithers a friendly wink. "You sure you're not hustling me?"

Smithers laughed a tad uncomfortably. "Absolutely."

Ellis lifted the rack from the balls. "You can break." He leaned back, tree-trunk arms wrapped around his cue stick as he leaned against the wall.

Smithers leaned over the table, feeling rather self-conscious, and took aim. He licked his lips, and concentrated. With an iconic crack, the cue ball struck the apex of the rack, and sent the remaining balls rebounding about the table.

As the game progressed, it became quite apparent that Smithers had not been husting Ellis; and that Ellis was not much better. The game was evenly matched, and fun. In the end, Smithers won, just barely. "Another?" Ellis asked.

"Sure," Smithers agreed. "What're you drinking? I need a refill."

Ellis looked as his glass, finished the remains in a single gulp. "Jack-and-coke." Smithers trotted over to the bar, flagged down Leon, and ordered two drinks.

Leon gave him a wink. "Glad to see you're making some friends out there," he encouraged, before getting back to work.

The second match was somewhat more competitive, but more lively as well. They chatted about this and that, and Smithers found himself opening up about his new resident status in Plateau City. He tried not to talk about Mister Burns, but old habits can be at times hard to break. This time, as he spoke though, it was not the love-struck ramblings, but lamentation. Smithers tried to keep from sounding hurt, he wasn't here to be sad, but the truth was his heart still ached.

Ellis clearly picked up on that. "Hey," he coaxed, "don't be blue; pink panther. You'll find someone."

"I wasted nearly two decades of my life," Smithers growled softly, slamming the cue ball into a striped one, and sending it down a pocket. He leaned back, and waited for the cue ball to appear at the chute.

Ellis leaned on his cue, thoughtfully, silently.

The cue ball appeared, and Smithers passed it over. Ellis placed it, and took a shot. "We've all been there," he said. "I mean, that's a long time, but it probably wasn't all bad."

Smithers shrugged. "There were a few good times," he admitted.

Ellis, who had sunk one of his solids lined up a second shot. "Yeah. So you think about what made it good, and then you know what to look for in the next guy."

"Honestly," Smithers said, taking his turn, "I don't feel as bad as I should."

"Rebounding?"

Smithers shrugged. "Maybe," he confessed.

"Well, I know one or two people around here who could help you along with that," Ellis replied subtly.

Smithers raised an eyebrow.

Ellis held up a meaty paw. "Not me. I'm kinda off the market. But hey, don't rush things. Take your time."

Smithers nodded. It was sound advice, even if he didn't want to hear it. "Hey," he asked, looking up, "who's that?"

Ellis followed his gaze. "That cutey?"

Smithers nodded.

"Awww, Keith? He's 'yestergay's news,'" Ellis replied with a shrug. He leaned in close to Smithers, and gave a covert wink. "But between you and me," he whispered, "I think he's still questioning. Just something to keep in mind, y'know…"


	7. Chapter 7

Smithers found himself losing track of time at J. Vernie's. As the afternoon deepened into evening, the number of patrons swelled. He played a few more games of pool against Ellis, then he and Ellis teamed up and played against a woman who called herself "Perth," and her partner Diane.

"Usually we have Drag Night tonight," Ellis explained, "but our resident queen had to go out of town for a business trip. Without her to organize things, well, it would've been a complete disaster." He laughed. "It was easier to put it off till next weekend."

"Drag Night, eh?" Smithers rubbed his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

Ellis pointed a finger and silently mouthed _you?_ "

Smithers held up a hand and shook his head. "Oh no. I'm merely along for the art," he replied coyly.

Perth leaned on her cue stick. "Riiiight," she drawled. "And I only read _Playboy_ for the articles!"

Diane did her best to look aghast, and gave Perth a shove.

Smithers and Ellis laughed.

The game ended when Diane managed a phenomenally lucky shot. "Another game," Ellis asked Smithers.

"No, I think I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air," he replied placing his cue into the rack along the wall. "Great game though," he added, shaking hands with Ellis.

"Hey, my pleasure! Anytime!"

Smithers grabbed his windbreaker, and sidled his way through the crowd out onto the patio. Like Leon had said, there was a beautiful view of the river, with the lights of the George Washington Bridge and NYC glimmering like diamonds against the hazy, lavender sky.

He leaned on the railing and took a deep breath. It felt good to get some fresh air. He wasn't paying attention when he turned around, and collided, literally, with the young man Ellis had referred to as Keith. Smithers' glasses slid off his face and landed somewhere on the patio by his feet. He dropped to his knees and started feeling around where he'd heard them land.

"Oh," yelped Keith, "I'm sorry! Let me get those for you."

Blurrily, Smithers saw Keith grab them from under a table, and hand them over.

"Thanks," said Smithers. He breathed on them, then wiped them against his shirt to clean them.

"I think the frames are kinda bent," Keith admitted apologetically.

"It's not your fault," Smithers replied. "I should've looked where I was going." He slipped his glasses on and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. They were bent, a bit. Wearable for now, but he'd have to track down a new pair.

"Let me buy you a drink," Keith offered meekly.

 _Well that's not necessary_ , Smithers started to say, then quickly shut his mouth. _Aww, what the hell_. "Well, if you insist."

Keith straightened his polo shirt, tugging it down. "What are you having?"

"I'll take a CliffBoxer."

Keith nodded. "I'll be back," he said, and scurried off.

Smithers flopped down into one of the glass-topped patio tables and regarded the view. The lights of the city reflected off the river. It made him think a bit of Paris. He'd never been there, but in all the movies there was always that scene on the Eiffel tower, looking down at the "City of Lights."

He lifted his glasses off and tried futiley to see if he could bend the frame back. Nope. He decided to quit while he was ahead, and peered through the crowd for Keith.

A few moments later he saw the man's face. Keith was deftly balancing two drinks, and a basket of cheese fries. He set them down on the table, and slid the fries to the middle. "I hope you don't mind, I was hungry," he admitted. "Help yourself."

"Thank you." Smithers did just that.

While he chewed, he took a moment to look over Keith. Keith wore a polo shirt and pressed jeans, with a pair of red Converse "Chucks" sneakers. The man had a youthful, boyish face, framed by shaggy, dirty-blond hair. His eyes were a light brown, inquisitive. He had high cheekbones, and a model's mouth. His hands were slender, suggesting a career in the technical field. Smithers reasoned Keith was probably in his late 20s, possibly younger. It was hard to tell.

"Thanks for the fries," Smithers said as he helped himself to another. He hadn't realized he was hungry, but the delicious combination of grease and salt tasted absolutely delightful against the beer.

"No problem," Keith replied shyly. He met Smithers' eyes, then look away, out over the river.

Smithers realized it would be on him to keep this conversation rolling. He took a sip of his beer, and nodded his head towards the main bar. "I don't think I caught your name," he said. A little white lie, but harmless. "Do you come here often?"

The man bobbed his head, hair bouncing as he did. "Usually once or twice a week, when I can. I'm Keith, by the way, and you are…?"

"Waylon. Waylon Smithers." He held out his hand. "You can call me either, but I prefer 'Waylon.'"

Keith took Smithers' hand almost too delicately. _Someone needs to teach you a proper handshake_ , Smithers thought as he curled his palm around Keith's cool fingers. Poor Keith would never impress anyone with a limp finger-hold like that.

"Nice to meet you, Waylon," said Keith with awkward formality.

Smithers tried to suppress a smirk. "A pleasure, Keith," he replied, every bit as formal. He couldn't maintain a straight face any longer. Smithers snickered, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Keith's brown wrinkled in confusion. "What," he asked, looking like a worried puppy.

"Nothing," Smithers replied, grinning. "It's just that you're so serious. It makes me smile, that's all." Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps it was Keith's mild manners. Something about him struck Smithers as quite appealing.

"Oh," replied Keith uncertainly. He bobbed his head, a hint of confidence returning. "Okay then."

Smithers snagged another cheese fry, and ate it slowly. "So you work at…" he made an encouraging gesture with his hand.

"Oh," Keith replied, blushing slightly. "I'm in grad school. I'm working on my MBA. I work in the college library, with the IT Department." He grabbed a few un-cheesy fries from the edge of the basket and slowly nibbled on them. "I like it…" his voice trailed off, like he was going to add a formal title at the end.

Smithers ran a hand through his ash-grey hair. "Don't you start calling me 'sir!'" Smithers teased.

Keith blushed. "I wouldn't think of it." The man should never play poker, Smithers thought. He had almost called Smithers 'sir.' Smithers was sure of it.

"Are you from around these parts?" Smithers asked, gesturing towards Plateau City.

Keith made a "sort-of" gesture with his hand. "I'm originally from Schenectady. It's near Albany," he added, recognizing Smithers' blank look. "I moved down here after college. I got myself a loft right off campus. It's small, but it's nice." He looked Smithers up and down.

"You?"

"I'm from Springfield."

"Which one?"

"North Tacoma," Smithers replied. "I grew up there. I worked at a nuclear power plant (I guess technically I still _am_ an employee there). I guess you'd call me an 'administrative assistant.'"

"Like a secretary," Keith asked innocently.

Smithers interlaced his fingers and rested his mouth against his knuckles. How to best explain a job like his. "More like something between 'administrator' and 'indentured servant,'" he remarked dryly.

"Oh." Keith sipped his drink, some mixed tumbler of alcoholic colours. "Did you, uhm… did you like it?"

Smithers shrugged. "I thought I did." He threw his arms wide. "Why, at the time it seemed like the greatest job in the world. But now that I'm here, and moving on professionally, sometimes I'm not even sure why I stayed as long as I did." He brought his hands back, and interlaced his fingers once again.

"What are you doing now?"

"I work as a chief of operations over at the nuclear plant."

"Do you handle radiocative stuff?"

Smithers shrugged. "I've been trained to, but mostly my job involves knowing how to do everything, so I can run such a place if needed."

Keith gave a bashful chuckle. "So you went from doing everything to knowing everything, eh?"

Smithers snickered. "Well, when you put it like that, I guess yes: yes I did."

Keith smiled, looked into Smithers eyes then promptly looked away. "Sounds like a step up to me," he said softly.

"Indeed," murmured Smithers, tenting his fingers decisively.

* * *

One of the best things about being Charles Montgomery Burns was the fact that when he said jump, people didn't waste time with stupid questions like "how high." They just hopped-to, and hoped to god their leaps were high enough.

While Burns read on the veranda, in the company of the hounds, reconstruction of the entry into the sealed room was started before mid-day. Evening fell over the east coast and Plateau City, but the sun was just starting to set in Springfield.

The project had almost been completed today. It _would_ be finished Sunday, the contractor assured him. They had to wait for some of the plaster moulding to dry before it could be sanded and painted.

Burns, much as he hated dealing with blue-collar peasants, thanked the man politely enough for his speedy work, and added a mental note to find someone from his plant who could serve as his liaison. Burns simply did not like dealing with 'the help.'

He wished, not without a certain degree of frustration, that he had someone to deliver that message to his employees; and save him the painful selection process. There was that meatbag from Sector 7G. For some reason his face stood out in Burns' mind; but Burns couldn't place his finger on why. He might be a possibility, though some part of his subconscious frantically rebelled against the idea.

Burns snorted in annoyance. He'd sort that out later. Right now, back to focusing on the room!

Smithers had been gone for not quite a month now. Burns had to admit he was a little vague on the actual time. _Sad hours seem long_ , he mused.

All his calls to Smithers had gone unanswered.

Dimas gave him the address to Smithers' hotel apartment.

Burns decided he'd write a letter tomorrow. How were letters sent these days? What was quickest? He still had those racing pigeons. Maybe he'd just drop it on the secretary's desk Monday, and tell her to send it. That seemed easier. Depending on the size of the letter, it might take a lot of pigeons to carry.

Burns' plan was simple enough.

He'd get the room cleaned and prepared. He wouldn't have anything actually removed, he wasn't ready for that, but he'd make sure everything was fresh and ready for when Smithers wanted to come home.

 _Home_. Burns mulled the word over. That was what he thought of the manor as: Smithers' true home. That teeny little apartment was merely a place Smithers stayed when he, Monty Burns, told the man to go away.

Burns slid his chair back and stood up. He took a step away from the table, and stumbled over something at his feet. A high-pitched shriek rent the still air. _Oh, damnation! Smithers' dog!_ He'd completely forgotten how the tiny brute would sleep under his chair.

He crouched down. "Hercules," he cooed anxiously, "come here, boy."

The little grey terrier regarded him guardedly, accusation plainly evident in the dog's shoe-button black eyes.

Burns reached a hand towards the terrier.

Hercules hobbled forward cautiously, holding his little front paw tucked tight against his chest.

Burns held out his hands and Hercules limped into them. As soon as Burns tried to touch the paw, the little dog cried out and tried to wriggle free.

Burns held Hercules clutched in one arm, and buried his face in his free hand.

"No," he muttered. "Not this." He felt his heart drop into his stomach. The limb was clearly broken. Hercules whimpered plaintively, and despite it all, tried to lick Burns' face.

Ordinarily, he would've screamed for Smithers to get on the phone and get a veterinarian over immediately!

Burns didn't even know what the number to the nearest veterinarian was. He tucked Hercules under his arm and ran down to the garage beneath the manor. He snatched a set of keys off the rack, the ones for the Aston Martin – it was the fastest - and carefully buckled Hercules into the passenger seat, being mindful not to bump the terrier's leg.

"Don't worry," he said with a confidence he didn't feel, "we'll get you all fixed up in no time!"

He tore out of the garage, tires squealing, and barreled towards Springfield proper.

* * *

"Mister Burns, I understand your concern, but Springfield General Hospital is for people, not animals." Doctor Julius Hibbert was doing his absolute best to address the situation. "Why, that little fellow would be far better off going to the Springfield Animal Hospital," he chuckled nervously.

Burns pulled a revolver from his coat pocket. "That is a place staffed by veterinarians! All well and good for the common animal, but I want the finest doctors! The best treatment money can buy!" He brandished the gun menacingly.

Doctor Hibbert laughed nervously, and pushed the barrel of the revolver away from his chest. "Well, you do make a persuasive argument." He reached for the terrier. "This poor guy looks like he's got a nasty break there. We'll make sure we get him taken care of."

Burns reluctantly let Hibbert take Hercules out of his arms. The doctor carried the small dog back through a pair of double doors, leaving Burns feeling very alone in the middle of the Emergency Ward.

Much as he tried to distract himself with reading magazines, or watching TV, Burns couldn't concentrate. He anxiously paced back and forth in the waiting room, glancing at the clock every few minutes.

The evening lengthened. He paused at the receptionists' desk. "Is there any news yet? Is Hercules going to make it?"

"I'm sorry sir, but we can't reveal medical information without the doctor's permission."

Burns puffed up his chest, and was readying to give the woman a serious ultimatum, Burns-style, when the doors to the surgery ward swung open, and Doctor Hibbert emerged.

"He's recovering nicely," Hibbert remarked with an amiable chuckle. "You can come back and see him if you want."

Burns wrung his hands nervously as he followed Hibbert to the recovery room. Hibbert knocked on the door to a room, then let himself in. Burns followed.

Hercules looked so small, lying in the hospital bed. His right front leg was wrapped in a cast, and he looked fairly groggy. When he saw Burns though, his face perked up. His little tail wagged happily, and he made a hopeful whimper.

Burns knelt down beside the bed, and put his face on Hercules' pillow. "I'm so sorry," he said as he stroked the tiny dog's head. "It was an accident! I never meant to hurt you."

Not caring that Doctor Hibbert was still in the room, Burns leaned over and gently hugged the little terrier. His heart was awash in emotions, ones he couldn't even identify. It wasn't just that he stepped on a dog, this was Smithers' dog! Smithers had left Hercules behind, trusting Burns to take care of him. Burns had failed even that. Alternating waves of relief and guilt broke over him. He put his head next to the terrier's and closed his eyes.

"I'm so… so sorry, he whispered. He didn't even know if he was talking to Hercules or the memory of Smithers anymore. "Please," he said dryly, "forgive me." He felt a single tear, hot and stinging, roll down his cheek. It was followed by several more.

The terrier's little pink tongue licked his face, washing away the tears. Hercules pressed his cold nose against Burns' cheek. The terrier, at least, had forgiven him.

Burns drove Hercules back to the manor, the little dog sleeping quietly on the passenger seat. It was getting late, and Burns felt tired beyond belief. He was glad he hadn't needed to do anything too extreme to get Hercules seen; and the hospital staff handled his unorthodox parking selection graciously. Not everyone, he reflected, would take so kindly to a car driven into the lobby.

He didn't bring Hercules down to the kennel. Instead he carried the sleeping dog upstairs and made a small nest for Hercules at the foot of his bed. Hercules didn't even stir as Burns set him gently down and pulled the blanket over him.

Burns glanced around his bed chamber, and found Bobo, his childhood teddy bear sitting by his nightstand. "You need him more than I do," he whispered to Hercules, tucking his cherished possession in beside the small dog.

Burns climbed into bed. He closed his eyes. _I'll empty out the closet for his stuff_ , Burns thought. _Smithers can sort everything out from there. And I'll have a special bed made for Hercules. He can stay in the house from now on. And he can stay with me until Smithers comes home_. He yawned, feeling his mind grow dim.

"Good night, Hercules," Burns muttered sleepily. "And good night, Smithers… wherever you are."

His last thoughts were of Smithers. Not Waylon Sr, as they so often had been, but of his Smithers, Waylon Jr. He missed Smithers' voice, his face. Hell, he even missed Smithers' scent! His arms felt empty without Bobo to hold; but Hercules needed the comfort more. He grabbed a pillow, imagined he was snuggled up against Smithers, and let the dreamless sleep of exhaustion take him.

* * *

On the other side of the country, Smithers finally made it home to his apartment. He tossed his shirt on the couch as he walked by, and kicked off his jeans. He brushed his teeth and flopped into bed, staring at the ceiling.

Smithers had to admit he'd probably indulged a bit more than he would've normally, but the conversation between him and Keith loosened up as the evening and drinks progressed. Thank goodness for the excellent public transportation system, Smithers thought dizzily.

He and Keith has swapped numbers, with the classic "I'll text you" lines that might, or might not lead anywhere. At the very least, he might've found a friend to explore the area with. Keith hadn't been to NYC in years. They both agreed a boys' night out to the Big Apple might be fun.

When he went to close his tab, Leon gave him a calendar with a list of events for the month. _You really should come for drag night_ , Leon encouraged. _It's a great time!_

Smithers said he would. He meant it.

On the bus-ride home, Smithers looked at various styles of glasses frames. He could access his prescription online. All he'd have to do is call it in to an optometrist. He might also get his script for contacts filled. He rarely wore them, they made his eyes sting after too long, but it might be nice to have the option of not wearing glasses when he went out.

Usually, his last thoughts before he went to bed were of Mister Burns, but tonight his mind was on other things. It might be early to say, but he felt like this place might be a good fit for him. _Perhaps Monday I'll ask Mister Dimas if I can stay on full-time._ He lay on his back, feeling the room sway gently, like a hammock. Or, perhaps it was just his head that was swaying. It was rather relaxing.

 _I wonder what Monty did today_ , he thought distractedly. Smithers rolled onto his side and tucked his knees up. The bed felt so warm and comfortable. Like a floating cloud. _Ah well. Whatever he did today, I'm sure he's not thinking of me_ , Smithers thought with a self-satisfied yawn. He pulled the covers about his neck, and drifted off to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Monty Burns woke early Sunday morning to Hercules curled up on his pillow. The little grey terrier was almost on Burns' face.

 _Well, this can't become 'a thing_ ,' he thought, pushing Hercules away. The terrier gave him a reproachful look, got to his feet, and came right back. He turned in a circle three times, then settled down, pushing his furry back against Burns' neck.

Burns got up and swung his thin legs over the edge of the bed.

"Smithers really lets you sleep like that, eh?" he said, lifting up the small dog and putting him on the floor. "I'm sorry to inform you, beastie, but I'm no Smithers."

Perhaps he wasn't, but Hercules appeared to find him an acceptable substitute for his master. Wherever Burns went, the tiny dog tried valiantly to follow. Eventually, out of sheer frustration, Burns called one of his servants over, and instructed the man to carry the dog around. "Don't speak to me," Burns growled. "Your job is to carry that dog, nothing more. Do you understand?"

The servant nodded mutely. _Smart_ , Burns thought approvingly. _This one gets it._

Burns took his breakfast in the formal dining hall while he read the _Springfield Times_ , the _Wall Street Journal_ , and a few other papers he kept an eye on. Satisfied, he strolled out to the veranda to finish reading that book he'd 'borrowed' from Smithers' room.

He'd never read anything by Faulkner before. The author's writing style almost reminded him of the authors he had grown up reading: the Bronte sisters, George Bernard Shaw… Faulkner's works had a profound melancholy to them, and a delightfully complex narrative. Burns enjoyed the juxtaposition of life, death, and morality. Nothing in Faulkner's was clearly "good," or decidedly "evil." It simply _was_.

Burns almost thought he could see inklings of his own character, the circumscribed turmoil of his own private nature.

 _"_ _It's that I do not wish to die," he said. Then he said it again. "It's that I do not wish to die," in a quiet tone, of slow and low amaze, as though it were something that, until the words had said themselves, he found he had not known, or had not known the depth and extent of his desire._

Faulkner's words made Burns feel uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite put his finger to. Burns felt sort of voyeuristic sensation; but whether it was that of the watcher, or the watchee, he couldn't tell.

He draped the bookmark across the page. Absentmindedly he chewed on a thumbnail as he thought.

 _I do not wish to die._

Were those words his, or had they been the last thought of Waylon Sr. before he succumbed to the radiation in the reactor core? It was a day Burns could never forget. He'd carry the memory to the grave, or beyond if such things as the afterlife existed. He remembered everything had happened as if in slow motion: Waylon Sr. turning towards him, eyes already growing thick. Waylon had reached towards him, tried to say something, then collapsed face forward, on the reactor floor. He never moved again.

What had Waylon been trying to say, Burns wondered. He replayed the scene in his mind, over and over, trying to put words to Waylon's lips. Time and time again, he came up empty. There was no way to know.

Had it hurt, Burns always wondered. Was dying the final agony, or the great release? Had Waylon suffered? Did he even feel it when he fell? Those were the sort of thoughts that plagued him on restless nights, in the wee morning hours between midnight and dawn.

Three AM was the devil's hour to be sure.

Burns ran his hand over _The Complete Works of William Faulkner_ , tracing the embossed letters with his deft fingers. Despite the warm, hazy day, he shivered visibly. A chill ran down his spine. He set the book on the table and rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

 _It should've been me_ , he thought bitterly.

 _I shouldn't have tried to stop him… I should've gone in instead of him._

Burns beckoned the servant bearing Hercules towards him. "Give the beast here," he ordered, "and leave me."

The servant nodded, and stepped back to rear entry of Burns Manor, remaining just outside the door in anticipation of Burns' eventual summons.

Burns stroked Hercules head absentmindedly. Whatever this sensation was, it wasn't simple. It wasn't anger, or sadness, or fear… it was something similar to all of them, but distinct. Burns took a deep breath, and tried to let it go. _It's not my fault_ , Burns thought distantly. He'd tried to stop Waylon Sr. from going into the reactor; he'd grabbed the man by the collar of his lab jacket. He hadn't expected Waylon to wriggle free, leaving Burns standing with nothing more than an empty coat in his hand.

No, more than just the coat.

Waylon Jr.!

He'd left Burns standing there with his infant son.

Burns hand froze, realization hitting him full force, showing no mercy. Smithers. Always Smithers. Not just one, but both. _He loved me, he loved his son. He gave me his son, then gave his life for both of us. And I? What have I have done to live up to that?_ Burns resumed running his hand over the terrier's soft fur.

"Oh beastie," he muttered to Hercules, "I've been such a fool!"

The dog lifted its head, and regarded him with little coal black eyes.

"It never was the wealth, or the money, or the delight in crushing the common man…" Burns exhaled heavily. "It was taking care of Smithers the way Waylon took care of me."

Guilt. That was the name of the feeling. Remorse. The realization that he'd failed in the one task Waylon Sr. had left him with.

"Looking after someone, caring for someone… It's more than merely toting them around, putting clothes on their back, or food on their plate." He wrung his hands together. "It's _not_ hurting them; then justifying it by saying you picked up the pieces."

Burns regarded Hercules' little cast leg morosely. "Putting things back together… it's not the same as _not_ breaking them in the first place, is it… and sometimes, things don't go back together as neatly as a broken bone." Burns put his head in his hands.

A little voice spoke up in his mind, scolding. Well Monty, it observed, you've gone and made a real mess of things now, haven't you.

 _Shut up_ , Burns thought angrily.

No, the voice retorted. You listen here: you are indifferent to him, you berate him, and yet you depend on him for everything you do. You sent him away, why? Because _you_ , Monty, couldn't deal with the fact that _he_ wasn't what you thought he should be.

Well, guess what, the voice continued, it's not about you! Smithers is who he is. No more, but definitely no less. You can wrap your actions in whatever blankets of justification and denial you want, but at the center of it all, you're a pathetic old man who can't admit he's found someone he actually cares about after all these years!

You can either accept that Smithers will always be _Smithers_ , or you can let him go once and for all.

 _I can't. I don't want to be without him._

Then you'd better learn to accept him as he is; and pray to whatever gods you believe in that he forgives you.

Burns ran his hands through what little hair he had left, clenching it in his fists, pulling his head back. He made sound halfway between a sigh and snarl. He stood, sweeping Hercules into his arms as he did. The servant scurried forward to take the dog, but Burns made a dismissive gesture. Hercules wasn't that heavy.

He strode purposefully into his private study, pulling the double doors shut behind him with a resounding slam. Burns set Hercules down in one of the chairs by the unlit fireplace, and sat down at his writing desk with a flourish.

Burns never hesitated. He grabbed a quill pen, and inkwell of some beautiful emerald-colored ink. He snatched a thick sheet of writing paper from the stack in the desk and sat down. Words flowed from his hand like ink from the pen.

 _My Dearest Smithers_ , he began, _I hope this doesn't come to you too late_ …

* * *

Waylon Smithers found Sunday to be a perfectly uneventful day. To make up for his late night Saturday, he spent Sunday in, being deliberately lazy. He spent most of it relaxing in his apartment, and shopping online. He'd found an optometrist in town that took his insurance, and emailed over his prescription. He planned to call them Monday and see if it was possible to pick up a new pair of glasses after work. Two, probably. He needed a new pair of prescription sunglasses. He had no idea where his old pair was. _Oh_ , he reminded himself, _and contacts!_

Monday morning rolled around, and Smithers made his way over to the nuclear plant. He always thought he'd never be able to live without a car, and yet here he was: getting around town just fine. He shouldered his day bag and walked towards the plant's main gate. He was surprised to realize he didn't miss driving.

Preston was standing by the timeclock, ever-present tablet in hand, looking down his nose at the employees coming in. When he saw Smithers, he gave a quick jut of his head, indicating Smithers to follow him.

"Mister Dimas wants to see you in his office immediately," Preston huffed, adjusting his glasses.

Smithers nodded.

"This way," Preston remarked, starting off.

Smithers bit his tongue. He knew the way to Dimas' office. It was right next to his own. He followed Preston nonetheless, arriving at the literally open office door.

Preston gestured Smithers enter, then followed, closing the door behind them.

Mister Dimas, broad and jovial as always stood up and extended a hand. "Waylon Smithers," he beamed, "glad to you could make it in. I've got a bit of a proposition for you." He gestured to one of his guest chairs. "Sit."

Smithers sat.

Preston trotted over and stood behind Dimas at his right shoulder. He opened his tablet and made a few quick annotations with his stylus. He handed the tablet to Dimas.

Dimas took it, and glanced down at the screen. He nodded, closed it, and passed it back up to Preston.

"I took the liberty of going over your weekly evaluations, Waylon. Everything's been exceptional in all quarters. Now this week, I've got you assigned to infrastructure. It's not as exciting, but it'll teach you the basics of environmental management here in the complex. It probably won't take more than a day or two, honestly. Most of the service on these pieces of equipment are contracted out. When we get done with that, I'm sending you over to hydrology. From there, mechanics; and finally, administration. I've saved the best for last, of course," he added with a deep chortle. "You'll be working right alongside me, at my right hand!"

Preston stiffened visibly. "But sir, I thought you said I'd be training Waylon!"

Dimas gave Preston a smirk. "What did I tell you about experience, Tucci? That there's no substitute for it. I daresay Waylon here could teach you a thing or two about running a nuclear plant; eh Waylon?"

Smithers shifted uncomfortably in his chair, both sets of eyes on him.

"Well," Dimas pushed. "You do have experience running a plant, don't you?"

Smithers fidgeted slightly. It wasn't his nature to brag about his accomplishments. "Well, I did run the Springfield Plant for a few weeks while Mister Burns was indisposed," he admitted. "Then there was that time Mister Burns decided to take a sabbatical and not tell anyone. I had to handle things till he came back."

Preston leaned forward, mouth open in an incredulous sneer. "You?" he asked.

Smithers stiffened. "Yes, me."

Dimas made a calm down gesture to Preston, who shut his mouth with an audible snap, and looked at a spot on the far wall beyond Smithers' head.

"See, here's the thing," Dimas began carefully. "Every time I'd see you at one of the conventions, Mister Burns was always leading the show. When I first saw you, I thought you were partners-"

(Smithers swallowed dryly.)

"-But then I realized you were just an attaché. Between you and I, Waylon, it perplexed me. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't be letting you take the reins, sending you in his stead, that sort of stuff. Clearly, you have the mind for it."

"Thank you, sir." Smithers dipped his head graciously.

"There's a convention in Albany next month. Regardless of where you're at in your training, I want you to come along specifically as my Chief of Plant Operations. Regardless of your actual tasks, it's your title on paper. Human Resources knows it. I know it. I want to see what you do when the rest of the nuclear world knows it!"

Smithers blinked in surprise. "Yes, Mister Dimas. Of course, sir; but why?"

Dimas' eyes grew distant, as if remembering something from long ago. "Once upon a time your Mister Burns… bah!" he waved a hand dismissively, "it doesn't matter now. Suffice to say, I owe him a debt of gratitude, which he decided to call in; on your behalf, I might add." He thrust a thick finger at Smithers.

"Now, I don't know what the old fox is up to, but if there's one thing I've learned from my father, it's 'never question Monty Burns!' With that in mind, he wants me to teach you how to be executive material? Well, that's _exactly_ what I intend to do."

He leaned back, and glanced over his right shoulder.

"Isn't that right, Preston?"

Preston started as if woken from a daydream. "Sir?"

"Isn't that right that we'll see Mister Waylon Smithers take charge at the North American Atomic Energy Convention next month."

"Oh yes, Mister Dimas," Preston agreed, scarcely able to hide the dripping sarcasm. "It will bring me such joy to see."

"There's a good man!" Dimas cheered, either not noticing, or deliberately ignoring Preston's tone. "Now, Preston, would you be so kind as to show Waylon down to the maintenance hub? I'd go myself, but I have all these reports to file." He gestured to a small stack of papers on his desk.

"Mister Dimas," Preston protested, "I could stay here and file those if you would like to spend a few more minutes with Mister Smithers."

"Oh no, I wouldn't ask you to do that. I like to keep my eyes on the paperwork; make sure everything's on the level. You boys go on. I'll catch up with both of you later."

Preston bowed his head stiffly. "Yes, Mister Dimas." He got up, ushering Smithers to follow him, and headed out of the office. As he shut the door behind him, he turned and sized Smithers up. "I must inform you," he said rigidly, "that I intend to make this plant my due patrimony, if by act, not lineage."

Smithers held up his hands. "Preston, I'm not after your job."

Preston narrowed his eyes. "Mister Dimas is conspiring with _your_ Mister Burns, then suddenly you're here and you already have experience as an interim director. What, exactly do I have to convince me that you're not after my career."

Smithers stopped, and squared off in front of Preston. He might not be quite as tall, but he was a good deal more muscular. Smithers leveled his gaze into Preston's eyes. "Look, _Preston_ , I'm not interested in _your_ nuclear plant or your job. I've done my time as a personal assistant for twenty years, and I'm tired of it. You can keep it." Smithers' voice lowered, taking on a slightly menacing tone.

"I have no intention of being anyone's sycophant ever again. You may think I'm here on some covert spy mission," he waved a hand, "or whatever it is you think I'm up to. But let me tell you that's not the case. After I'm done here, I might get out of this field altogether. I haven't made up my mind yet."

Preston's jaw flapped a few times. He tried to form words, but Smithers cut him off. "If you want to be a lapdog for the rest of your life, good; fine! Do what makes you happy. But don't you dare start thinking I'm your enemy. I don't have any interest in your job. I've already done it. Now," he added, holding up a hand, "you can either take offense at that, or you can listen to _your_ Mister Dimas, and perhaps you just might learn a few things from me."

Smithers was on a roll now, not yelling, but speaking with soft intensity. "Don't underestimate me, Preston. Because if I do decide to stay in nuclear energy, and so do you, I'm sure we'll cross paths again. I don't want us to be enemies. The business is too small for that."

Preston snorted with contempt, but he gave a curt nod. "Fair enough, Waylon, but don't you forget, you're yesterday's news. It's people like me who will be running the scene in a few years. Just you wait!" He gestured down to the end of the hall. "Maintenance is up ahead. Go in and ask for Sharon. She's expecting you."

The discussion was at an end.

Preston spun on his heel and stalked off. Smithers turned his back to the disappearing man, and headed over to meet this Sharon person.

Like the rest of the plant, the maintenance department had a clean, modern feel to it. Sharon was already there, waiting for him.

"Waylon Smithers, right?" she asked, extending a hand. Everyone apparently shook hands in Plateau City, Smithers noted.

"Yes, ma'am."

She beamed. "So, do you have any idea what you'll be getting into down here?"

Smithers admitted he did not. He'd expected "infrastructure" would be mostly janitorial duties, and wasn't particularly looking forward to it. He did not, however, tell that to Sharon.

The bright eyed woman regarded him cheerfully. She had short, spiky red hair, and dark eyes. She wore a pair of clean work pants, and a polo shirt. Her hands were dainty, but strong, slightly stained from the various chemicals. She eyed him up and down.

"There's a lot of hands on maintenance," she said. "And occasional heavy lifting," she added.

"I can handle that."

"Good, good." She waved him into her tiny office. It was filled to the ceiling with filing cabinets, papers and books; all rather haphazardly stacked.

Smithers tried not to let her clutter affect his initial impressions. He was still rather irritated from his exchange with Preston a few moments before. The idea of working as a janitor for some disorganized woman did not appeal to him in the slightest.

"You're probably thinking this is all mop-and-bucket work; and some of it is, but most is more technical. You need to know your way around an HVAC flowchart, how to back-prime the hydrology pumps, fix basic electrical problems, and of course the unglamorous unclogging of toilets. That last one's easy. Plunge it up, flush it down, look out below." She gave him a friendly wink. "Seriously though, this is one of these jobs where you have to know a little bit about how to do every other job here."

Sharon glanced at the memo on her desk. "Dimas-willing, if you have past experience in basic handyman work, this should take less than a week. If not, it'll take longer." She grabbed two books off the shelf and handed them over to him: _Home Maintenance for Dummies_ , and _Electronics All-in-One for Dummies_.

Noticing his rather miffed expression she remarked: "I make these required reading for all my trainees. Don't be offended. Pretty much everything basic you'll encounter here will be addressed in these books."

Smithers took them, nodding silently. He flipped open the thick _All-in-One_ book. "This has almost nine hundred pages," he remarked.

"It's light reading," she replied, ruffling through her stack.

 _You call this 'light'?_ Smithers thought silently, hefting the book in one hand.

"If that _All-in-One_ 's too basic for you, I have a textbook on classic electrical theory around here somewhere. No one ever wants to borrow that," she muttered, precariously lifting a stack of papers.

While Sharon's back was turned, Smithers took a moment to glance around the office. The walls were covered with note boards, calendars, and a few certificates.

He took a closer look at one of the certificates.

"You have a Master's Degree in Engineering!?" he asked incredulously.

Sharon glanced over her shoulder. "What that? Oh yeah, from RPI. I also have a Doctorate. Didn't really have space to hang that. Oh!" she reached into a pile and pulled out a framed certificate. "Here it is." She passed it over to Smithers.

"Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute? That's, one of the best schools in the country."

"World," interjected Sharon, finally hauling a book on basic plumbing out of the heap.

"'World,'" Smithers corrected himself. He took the plumbing book and added it to his stack. "So why, if I may ask, do you work here?"

Sharon smiled. "It's close to home. It's a low-stress environment. I have a lot of free time to work on ideas and designs to improve the plant. I like to think about how I can make things better, and I like the people." She shrugged. "What, did you think I was just some highschool drop out?"

Smithers thought about the mental aptitude and education of some of the Springfield plant employees. "Well no, it's just, eh…" he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

She watched him, expression level. "A lot of people think that. I get it. And most of the people who apply to work for me fit that description to a tee." She shrugged again. "That's part of the reason I make them read all this stuff." She gestured to the books in Smithers' hands. "If they can't manage some basic reading, I definitely don't want them trying to navigate a schematic for one of the generator fail-safes."

That made sense to Smithers. He nodded. "Isn't that usually the nuclear engineers' jobs?"

Sharon laughed, sitting down on top of her desk. "You'd think that, but sometimes they don't want to get their hands dirty. So, that means my team has to. Especially if whatever needs fixing is in an awkward place, like beneath the drop-floors, or something." She grinned. "I like my team strong, smart, and flexible. You would not believe how difficult it can be to get to certain parts."

"So it's mostly electronics?"

"A little bit of everything. There's a leak in one of the cooling pipes, we fix that. Airplane warning lights on the towers go out? We fix that too. The sink in Mister Dimas' executive bathroom is dripping?" She pointed a finger at Smithers. "Yep, you guessed that. We fix it."

"I thought it would be more, uhm, janitorial."

Sharon shook her head. "We hire out for basic cleaning. Their company does all the background checks and screenings. It's actually cheaper than hiring an in-house cleaning crew."

Smithers filed that little piece of information away. At the Springfield plant, they had a crew of interchangeable janitors and maintenance personnel. The problem was finding qualified workers who could be trusted around the plant. There was a high turn-over in that department. Sharon was right: hiring and training new people was expensive.

Despite what he'd said to Preston earlier, Smithers was quite sure he'd stay in the nuclear field. If, and it was a big _if_ , he ever wound up in control of a plant full-time, it would be good to know ways to cut down on losses. That would save money for more important things, like updates and repairs. Lord knew the Springfield plant could use both. Burns was almost deliberately lax on necessary maintenance; yet it was always Smithers who wound up protecting him from the consequences.

Smithers wondered distractedly how things had panned out once he left Springfield.

He realized he didn't care.

Sharon was snapping her fingers loudly. "Hey! Focus here."

Smithers shook his head. "I'm sorry, I was thinking about what you said, comparing how things are run here to the plant I worked at before."

Sharon regarded him seriously. "Well, glad as I am that you're thinking about the topic at hand, please try to stay with us. There's a lot to go over." She grabbed an armload of blueprints. "Come with me!"

"Where are we going?"

"There's a disused storage room down here that I use as a planning room. I want to show you the schematics for our plant, help you get a better understanding of the site and the layout thereof." She pushed her door open with a foot. "Come, come."

Smithers rose, scooped up his books, and followed placidly along.


	9. Chapter 9

By the end of the week, Waylon Smithers had to acknowledge there was way more to the basic maintenance of a nuclear plant than he ever imagined. Especially when Sharon told him to 'lead up,' a phrase used to refer to donning the anti-contamination suits used in areas of potential radioactive exposure, and brought him to some of the ductwork near the reactors.

Sharon, belly-crawled forward, a Geiger counter in hand, and pulling a rope attached to her toolkit behind her. Smithers brought up the rear.

"I, uh, I didn't realize there was this much to swapping out a simple washer," he admitted.

"Oh sure," Sharon replied. "Nothing's ever simple. We had to tag-out the entire tertiary hydro-circuit for Reactor Two at seven am this morning. We're using the redundant system, but," she squeezed under a low conduit, "we have to get this done stat. The redundant systems aren't designed for long-term use." She grunted. "Ah, here we are." She hauled the toolkit up into the tiny space.

Smithers slid under the conduit pipe, and drew himself up beside her and the kit. She took a few readings with the Geiger counter. "It's mostly a safety precaution," she explained. "The odds of any areas being hot down here are slim to none, but, never take chances."

"Nope," Smithers agreed.

He watched as Sharon grabbed a wrench and started unfastening several bolts by her head. She rolled on her back, and braced her feet on the pipe above her. She grunted, twisting for better leverage.

"That's why (nngh), you started with Gary. Now you know how to tag out a system. Do you know what would happen if someone turned on pumps right now?"

Smithers put his hands on the wrench and helped her loosen a particularly tight bolt. "We'd all die?"

"Hah, I like your humor. However, several thousand gallons of boiling water would come rushing through here. You'd _probably_ live, but it wouldn't be pleasant. Still better than the other hydro-circuits. Those have steam running through them!"

They finished the last bolt. Sharon put them all in a tiny dish, and sealed the cover to keep them safe. She grabbed the water pipe in both hands, braced her feet against the one near the ceiling and pushed.

The pipe slowly swiveled away from the junction, exposing a worn gasket seal. "This," she said, prying the seal off with her fingers, "is not a problem yet, but if it's not replaced now, it could be. The last thing we need is any sort of leak."

She handed the gasket to Smithers. It was black, about the size of a salad plate, made out of some synthetic rubbery material. He flexed it, curious. He noticed signs of cracking along the outer edge.

Sharon fished around in her kit box. "Ah, here we go!" She showed him a replacement seal. It was grey.

"They all start out grey?" he asked.

"Yep," she replied, lining it up on the junction, and closing everything back up. She and Smithers tightened the bolts, then began the arduous crawl back.

"I wish they'd put in an access corridor," Smithers remarked.

Sharon laughed. "This is the access corridor! You should see some of the truly difficult spots to get to."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

Smithers tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but he had to admit maintenance, "infrastructure," whatever it was called was simply not his cup of tea. Valuable to learn, he could acknowledge. He had no idea how physical the job actually was, but it was something he hoped not to ever do again.

By the time he arrived home, feeling grubby and tired, he was looking forward to the weekend. Climbing around pipes and soldering wires was simply not for him. He paused briefly at the front desk to get his mail, several packages from his online shopping last weekend, and nothing more. He was glad he'd been able to pick up his new glasses earlier this week.

Smithers had decided to go for something different than his traditional round rims. He had finally decided on a chic rectangular style for his everyday wear. N _ew hair, new glasses_ , he thought, strutting like a peacock in front of the mirror; a whole new Smithers. _Looking sharp_ , he thought proudly. Oh yes, he liked the look.

He almost snapped a 'selfie' to post on his social media page, then thought better of it. Let it be a surprise when, _if_ , he ever went back to Springfield.

He showered, then sat down to open the boxes. It was a good thing the sites he shopped at kept a list of past orders. It was also good they were discrete. It was so hard to find heels in his size, and he didn't feel like shopping out. He didn't have much time to go through everything though. He'd promised the gang he'd meet them at The Lucky Lady after work.

Smithers grabbed his phone off the table and fired a text over to Keith. They'd been in loose contact through the week. "Are we still on for Sunday?" he asked.

A few seconds later his phone buzzed back a reply. "We r stll going 2 NYC, rite?"

Smithers winced. He'd have to break Keith of that chatspeak habit. Really, it was too much. "Yes. And please, use the whole word :)" He threw in a smiley for good measure.

Seconds later the reply came in. "K ;)"

Smithers rubbed the side of his head. "Will you be at JV's tomorrow?"

"No. Gotta finish a papr. Paper."

"Okay. See you Sunday."

Truthfully, Smithers was relieved Keith wouldn't be there. He'd signed up on the registry for Drag Night. If his 'lifestyle choice' was in the closet, his 'passion for fashion' was kept locked in the basement. Everything was kept in a secure steamer trunk in his apartment in Springfield. Fortunately, he'd been able to order what he considered the bare minimum from the internet. He laid everything out on the couch, and examined it thoroughly. Not quite as elaborate as he liked to be, but it would work. _I'll look marvelous anyhow_ , he thought with a smirk.

Carefully, he folded everything, putting his dress neatly into his garment bag, and the rest of his accessories into a hard-covered rolling suitcase. He grabbed a flash-drive from his computer bag, and tucked it into the suitcase. It had "his" songs on it. Many years ago, he went to the recording studio in Springfield, and had a few remixes made of several pop songs. For some, he changed the lyrics a bit. Justin Bieber's song, _Boyfriend,_ became "Girlfriend." Stuff like that.

He'd done a good deal of the mixing himself, retouching the music, and recording new lyrics. He could sing, and with training had taught his natural tenor voice to hit a very sultry alto. His friend, Julio, back in Springfield, had helped provide some of the vocals as well. Julio could hit the high notes that were just beyond Smithers' range. Two voices really added a nice depth to the chorus.

Smithers was looking forward to getting a chance to perform. There was something about dressing up made him feel as if he were someone else. He could be confident, sassy, even a bit catty when he needed to, and no one batted an eye. On stage, all his insecurities melted away. It was a wonderful, freeing sensation to toss away his daily life for a spell, and be whoever he wanted!

But for tonight, at least, he was still Waylon Smithers.

He smiled quietly, inwardly.

Tonight, he'd just be one of the boys, out for drinks at the pub. Tomorrow, he'd be a _diva!_ ; then Sunday: back to nice, normal Waylon Smithers.

Smithers glanced at his phone. It was nearly six-thirty. Time to get going. He grabbed his wallet, smoothed back his hair, and made his way downstairs to the strip below.

The Lucky Lady was quite crowded. He squeezed his way through the crowd and sat down at the table next to Ruby (from accounting). Antoine was there, of course, wearing a polo shirt and what appeared to be swim trunks, or possibly just very gaudy shorts. There was an empty chair between him and Gary. Sharon was there as well, chatting with someone Smithers didn't know.

Smithers greeted the party, and ordered a CliffBoxer. He glanced over to the bar. The woman who he'd seen bartending with Leon the other night was there, as was a man Smithers didn't know; but no Leon. Smithers caught a motion out of the corner of his eye.

Preston had come in and made his way over to the table. He eyed the seat next to Antoine, rolled his eyes, and sat down.

"Saved that specially for you, Preppy," he beamed.

"Whatever, Antoine," muttered Preston.

Ruby looked up from her conversation. "No, really, he did! I tried to sit there, and he shoo'd me away." She gave Antoine a mock-reproachful look. "Jerk."

Antoine made a _guilt-as-charged_ shrug, and grinned at Preston. "Fashionably late as usual, eh?"

"I had work to do. If you had any sense of responsibility, you'd know what that meant."

"I am responsible! I ordered a pizza before half of you people even got here!"

Preston narrowed his eyes. "What toppings?"

"Veggies on one side for Sharon there, and meat (glorious meat!) on the other half for me!"

Sharon tilted her head. "You're too kind."

"Really? Should I jerk it up a bit?"

Everyone stared at Antoine. The realization of what he just said hit him, turning his face from tan to deep red. He hid his eyes. "Let's just… uh, let's just strike that one from the record, okay?"

Everyone, even Preston laughed. The pizza arrived; and the evening lengthened on.

* * *

Saturday morning Smithers woke bright and early. He was too excited to sleep any longer. He checked his watch, and bounded down to the exercise room. He needed to burn off some energy, get his mind centered. He did a three mile run on the treadmill, then lifted weights for a while.

Afterwards, feeling significantly more focused, he headed to his apartment and took a shower. He checked made sure everything he needed was packed, and sat himself down to brunch.

There was a knock at his door.

Smithers froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. A surge of apprehension flooded his body. No one knew he was here. There were only a few people who had his address. Sure it was on file at the plant's HR department, but no one there would care.

The knock came again, a bit louder this time.

Hands shaking, he dropped the spoon back in the bowl, and padded over to the door. He peered through the peep-hole, and breathed a sigh of relief. Relief, and possibly a bit of disappointment. For a split second, he'd almost thought it had been Mister Burns…

One of the clerks from the front desk was standing there, holding a thick white envelope.

Smithers unbolted the door, and opened it.

The clerk handed him the envelope. "This arrived by courier for you this morning," he said, handing the letter over. It was an oversized envelope, made of some antique style paper. Smithers thanked him, and tipped the man five dollars before shutting the door.

Curious, he brought the letter to his table and examined it.

There was no return label, but the handwriting that wrote his address was all too familiar. Smithers' hands started to shake. He turned the envelope over at looked at the back. Sealed with a wax emblem, bearing the crest of the Burns Family.

Smithers had only seen Burns send letters like this twice before. Each had been a solemn and formal affair; ones Burns had handled with the utmost privacy. This type of letter was reserved for the most grave of Burns' proclamations. Everything from the green seal, to the money-green ink was designed to emphasize the seriousness of the document.

Smithers set it on the table and stared at.

The letter seemed to be staring back, demanding Smithers' attention post-haste.

Smithers sighed. _Not today, Monty_. The letter's burdensome presence was getting on his nerves. He snatched it up, carried it to the one of the drawers in the dresser, and stuffed it into the bottom under his clothes. _I'll deal with you later_ , he thought sharply. _I don't have time for this right now_.

Time, yes. What time was it? Smithers glanced at his phone. It was nearly noon.

While J. Vernie's didn't open for patrons until four, the performers were encouraged to get there around one. That way, everyone had time to get dressed, rehearse their acts, and get settled in. The actual show wouldn't start till five.

Smithers decided he'd wait a little longer before catching the bus downtown. He didn't want to arrive too early. Getting dressed would be easy. Makeup was what took the longest, he thought.

He contemplated calling Burns, and announcing he would not read the letter because he didn't care what it said, then thought better of it. If he knew anything about the old man, Burns was probably pacing a hole in the carpet by now, waiting for a reply. _Let him stew a bit longer_ , Smithers thought, feeling rebellious and oddly proud. _I'll call him when_ I'm _good and ready_.

Smithers arrived at J. Vernie's right on time. He followed the rest of the queens upstairs, and started getting dressed. Few of the bar employees had arrived yet. The kitchen staff were in, doing prep for the night's dinner service, but none of the bartenders were in yet.

Smithers chatted with some of the other queens as he got dressed. There were changing blinds, but like theatre, there was very little self-consciousness. Some of the outfits, like corsets, required a second set of hands to help tighten. A bit of padding here, a wrap there, make-up, and (of course) the fabulous accessories.

Smithers' persona was a tan-skinned beauty named "Shezabelle Lexinton," first-name pronounced like _she's-a-belle_. He, or now, rather _she_ , took care to put on her makeup, starting with chest and arms, darkening her skin to a warm olive shade. She put in her contacts, and finished her face. Shezabelle was every bit as outgoing as Smithers was quiet. She was the sort who as soon toss some witty remark over her shoulder, then strut of with a snap and a pop of her hips. She was fierce, and she knew it.

Makeup done, it was time to get downstairs for rehearsal.

None of the queens was a first-time performer. It made everything easier. While "Drag Night" was not an exclusive event, it helped when no girl had first-time jitters. "Shezabelle" practiced her walk, pivoting easily despite the four-inch heels. She wished she'd had her old shoes, they were more broken in, but these would have to do.

She decided her act tonight would song number, "Girlfriend." It was a slow, and rather seductive piece, fitting with Shezabelle's teasing nature. The best part was, the entire song was in her range; she didn't have to lip sync. She earned quite a few cheers from the other queens during the final dress rehearsal.

"Alright, Ladies, that's a wrap," called out a towering queen named "Elodda Vomanne." She was the host, and also the master of ceremonies. She was the one who had been out of town the other weekend, and watching her keep everyone on task, it was clear this event couldn't work without her. "We've got a few minutes before doors open. Get yourselves some water, and head upstairs!"

Shezabelle felt her stomach flutter with excitement. She always got the jitters before going on stage, regardless of the character she would be playing. A little nervousness was good. Overconfidence was the killer of actors.

The opening act was Elodda singing her song, then opening with some friendly reading (teasing) of the patrons. She introduced the next act, who did a comedy skit. Then it was Smithers', Shezabelle's, turn.

The bass came up first, fog flowing onto the catwalk as the intro began. Shezabelle counted the beat in her in her head, then stepped into the middle of the stage.

 _If was your girlfriend, I'd never let you go_

 _I can take you places you ain't ever been before_

(She paused and swung her hips.)

 _Baby take a chance or you'll never really know_

 _I got money in my hands that I'd really like to blow_

(She pantamined swiping a credit card)

 _Swipe it, swipe it, swipe it for you_

 _Chillin by the fire while we eatin' fondue_

(She sashayed to the very front of the catwalk and pointed at a cute patron.)

 _I dunno about me, but I know about you_

 _So say hello to Shezabelle oh, in three two_

(Turn upstage.)

 _I'd like to be everything you want_

(Sharp turn back the audience, snap fingers.)

 _Hey boy, lemme talk to you…_

The door opened, someone was walking in during the middle of her number. The nerve! How rude… and _oh my god!_ It was Preston. She'd recognize that face and round-rimmed glasses anywhere. He was wearing a white button up shirt, khaki pants, and deplorable patterned tie…

Shezabelle almost lost her place. Almost. She was too good to be distracted like that.

Preston took a seat near the side of the stage, and watched, eyes shining in the dim light. She watched as he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He looked rather flushed.

What's he doing now, Shezabelle wondered. _Is he… no… yes… he is!_

Preston had reached into his wallet and was holding out a folded bill, at arm's length, the proper way to offer a tip.

He doesn't even recognize me!

 _Keep me on your arm, boy, you'd never be alone._

She gave a tantalizing spin and swooped down closer to Preston.

 _I can be your lady, anything you want_

(Delicately take the cash, give him a wink and blow him a kiss)

 _If was your girlfriend you'd never let me go, never let me go…_

Shezabelle finished her number amid a wonderful round of applause, and a few more tips. "Werk it, gurl!" hooted Elodda encouragingly as Shezabelle strutted exquisitely off stage. Upstairs she took her shoes off, threw her head back, and laughed.

"What's so funny," one of the other girls asked.

"Girl," chuckled Shezabelle, "I just saw one of my coworkers down there, and the poor boy didn't even recognize me! I had no idea he was even into this sort of thing!" She lost her words to her mirth, and held a hand to her mouth.

"Are you going to, you know, have some fun with him?"

Shezabelle batted her long lashes coquettishly. "Me, well, the boy is so not my type, but perhaps I'll let him buy me a drink if he offers."

After the final number, a choreographed finale where all the performers sang a number together the group broke apart and went to mingle with the patrons. Smithers, Shezabelle, noticed Leon was bartending tonight. She made her way over to the bar.

"Hey you," she said, giving a flirty bat of the eyes, "what's a gorgeous lady got to do to get a drink around here?"

Leon looked up, and smiled. "What'll you have…" recognition flooded his eyes; he raised his eyebrows in surprise. He nodded his approval. "Oh, girl, you look so fly!" He winked. "What'll be for you tonight?"

"Sex on the beach."

Leon chuckled. "Is that an offer or your drink?"

Shezabelle reached over and gave Leon's had a squeeze. "It can be whichever you want to make." They both laughed; and Leon fixed her a drink.

Shezabelle leaned on the bar, watching the patrons and performers mingle. Usually she'd be out there in the middle, but with Preston casing the place, she felt a low profile might be best. Not that she cared particularly, but she didn't feel like getting drawn into some out-of-character conversation. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied. She breathed a sigh of relief and slowly sipped her drink.

Shezabelle thought she'd be able to make it through the evening without having to deal with Preston, but she was wrong. Halfway through the evening, he spotted her, and made a beeline over, cutting through the crowds like Moses parting the Red Sea.

She turned and whispered to Leon, "Angels and minsters of grace protect me, here he comes!"

Leon raised his eyes discretely over his shoulder. "I'll be here to cover for you," he whispered back.

"Hey there, gorgeous," came a familiar voice from behind Shezabelle.

 _Oh god_ , she winced. _Smile_ , she ordered herself, and turned around.

"Hey there yourself," she replied saucily, leaning a hip against the bar.

Preston's face was rather flushed. He smiled, eyes wide, expression awkward. "I really liked your performance," he said, dabbing the back of his neck with his handkerchief. "I was wondering if I might buy you a drink?"

Shezabelle pouted her lips sexily. "I suppose you could. I'm having sex on the beach."

She could almost hear Preston's pupils dilate. She kept her smile, though inside she was looking for a quick exit.

"Is that an offer or a drink?" Preston asked, hopefully.

"Boy, that is my joke; and my drink," she replied with a faintly catty tone. Like most queens, Shezabelle had claws, and wasn't afraid to use them. She noticed Preston's slightly mollified expression. She softened her tone. "Oh babe, don't be like that," she smiled. "You're young, and I'm too much woman for you; I hope you understand."

Preston nodded. "I do." He paid for her drink, and slipped back into the crowd.

Leon leaned against the bar. "Nicely done," he remarked, nodding in approval.

"Thanks," said Shezabelle, letting herself drop back down to Smithers for a moment. "Even if he is, that way, and I don't really think he is, there are some people you just don't want to spend time with; you know?"

Leon patted her shoulder. "I hear you on that one. Hey, you and Keith seemed to hit it off the other day. So… is that leading anywhere.

Smithers, fully Shezabelle once again gave Leon a playful tap on the chest. "Why sir, a lady would never kiss and tell!"

Leon grinned. "Ah, fair enough, Madame." He held his hands wide in a gesture of supplication, "I beg your pardon."

Shezabelle gave him another wink. "Babe, for you I'd give my pardon freely." They laughed together for a moment. Shezabelle finished her drink, and slipped gracefully into the crowd.


	10. Chapter 10

C. Montgomery Burns didn't have a lot of things going for him at the moment. Last week he'd managed to stave off the Nuclear Regulatory Commission's inspection, just barely, and he bribed the OSHA inspector to let a few things slide. Nest of raccoons in the ventilation duct? What raccoons? There are no raccoons here!

Things like that.

What irked him though was the fact he hadn't heard a response from Smithers, despite sending his most formal and imposing of documents. Did Smithers not read it? The manager at the hotel assured him it had been hand-delivered.

Burns had half a mind to fly out to Plateau City himself, and demand Smithers acknowledge him.

Lately his moods seemed to pendulum between fury and sorrow. He was beginning to feel drained from it all. What he needed was Smithers. The man always managed to be the balancing yin to his raging yang. Without Smithers, well, most of his impulse control was going out the window.

 _Damn it all_.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Smithers' number.

As always, his call went straight to voicemail. If he hadn't been getting reports on Smithers from Dimas, Burns would've been worried. At least he knew Smithers was alive and well. But why wasn't he answering. Burns slammed the receiver down vehemently, and tented his fingers, thinking.

 _To hell with it_ , he snarled.

He dialed Smithers' number a second time, waited till the voicemail beeped, and began speaking. "Smithers, you stubborn clod of a mule, read that letter you received and call me back immediately!"

He hung up and waited.

Seconds ticked by, lengthening into minutes. The minutes seeped in a quarter of an hour, then half. Still, Burns waited, unmoving, for his phone to ring.

* * *

On the other side of the country, Smithers and Keith were boarding the southbound Amtrak train to New York City. They couldn't have asked for better weather. Smithers wore a pair of light cotton shorts, polo tee, and a button-up overshirt; which he'd left unbottoned. Keith wore cut-off jeans and a hooded tee-shirt. Smithers didn't even know they made tee-shirts with hoods.

Keith grinned. "I like the look of a hoodie, but it's too warm for one," he remarked jovially as they climbed onto the train, and took their seats. "You know," Keith remarked after the men had gotten settled, "we could go to Niagara Falls some weekend."

Smithers looked up from the route map. "Oh?"

Keith nodded. "It'd be a weekend trip, it takes about six and a half hours from here, but the economy tickets are only fifty dollars each. That's cheaper than driving. We could skip out of our respective duties some Friday, and come back Sunday."

Smithers folded the Amtrak schedule into his backpack and pulled out a New York City brochure, one of several he'd grabbed at the train station. "We could," he said thoughtfully. _Let's see how today goes before we commit to anything_ , he added silently.

Keith seemed to take the hint. He drummed his hands on his thigh, and stared out the window quietly.

"Hey," Smithers interjected, tapping Keith on the knee, "what's on your mind?"

"Just thinking about the trip," Keith replied.

 _Yep_ , Smithers thought, _the man definitely should never play poker_. "No, seriously," he pushed, "something's got you distracted."

Keith turned his soft brown eyes towards Smithers and smiled. "It's just," he paused, "I'm not sure if this is a date or…"

Smithers gave a reassuring smile. "You're worried about that?" He shook his head. "Don't be. There's no pressure. We're just two handsome guys on their way downtown for the day. It doesn't have to be more than that."

Keith looked away, bashfully. "Handsome," he muttered, and blushed.

 _Well, more 'cute_ ,' Smithers thought. When it came to handsome, Smithers considered the austere type to better fit that definition. But no, Keith was definitely cute, with his youthful charm, tousled locks, and expressive eyes. Smithers resisted the urge to reach out and ruffle Keith's hair. Instead, he clasped his hands together between his legs.

"I like your new glasses," Keith admitted. "I'm sorry about your old pair, but honestly, these fit your face better."

Smithers took his glasses off and squinted at them. "You think so?"

Keith nodded eagerly. "Oh yes. They make you look…" he paused, searching for the word. "Sophisticated, I guess. Worldly."

Smithers laughed and interlaced his fingers. "Worldly, eh? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, like you've been places. Seen and done a lot of things. I've never lived anywhere but the capital district. I mean," he added, "I've travelled. I went to Florida as a child, and I have grandparents in Michigan, but I've never _lived_ anywhere else, you know?"

Smithers nodded thoughtfully. He knew exactly.

"If you could live anywhere," Smithers asked, "where would it be?"

Keith thought for a moment. "Arizona, Tucson maybe. Or San Francisco."

"Well you can't get more different than those," Smithers remarked. He dug a granola bar out of his pack and offered it to Keith. Keith took it, thanked him and tore into it eagerly.

The two men rode quietly for a while. Eventually, the train arrived at Penn Station. Smithers, who had been reading the map of Penn Station got up, motioning Keith to follow.

"Where are we going first?" Keith asked, curious.

"How do you feel about museums?" Smithers asked.

"Natural history or art?"

"Either."

"Both are fine," Keith replied, bobbing his head eagerly. "Whichever you want."

Smithers nodded. "We'll go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art then," he said decisively. "They have an amazing Egyptian exhibit I've been dying to see."

Keith trotted along beside him.

"We'll take the subway," Smithers remarked, looking over his map. "It'll get us close enough. From there, we can walk the rest of the way."

"Sounds good," Keith agreed cheerfully.

A short time later, Keith and Smithers were standing before the Tomb of Perneb; and the narrow entrance between the limestone blocks. Smithers grinned broadly at Keith, who looked up in awe.

"Isn't it something?" Smithers remarked, tilting his head towards the entry way. "This is the real thing, no reproduction." He laid a hand on the stone. "Chiseled out by hand. You know, some of this artwork is so precise, down to the micrometer. We're only now developing technology that precise; and they did it all by hand."

Keith reached out and stroked the stone next to Smithers' hand.

"Have you ever seen them," he asked. "The pyramids, I mean."

Smithers shook his head. "I've been to Europe a few times; Asia too. Never Africa." He slid through the narrow entryway. "I've been to India twice…"

"You must've seen some amazing sights," observed Keith, sliding in behind him.

Smithers gave a sad little laugh. "No, unfortunately not. It was always on business."

"Oh." Keith fell silent for a moment.

They passed into the main Egyptian exhibit, peering into the various display cases, and occasionally making an observation to one another. Smithers periodically glanced out of the corner of his eye to watch Keith. He wanted to see Keith's reaction.

The young man seemed interested, and he appreciated the craftsmanship to be sure. Smithers wasn't sure Keith _felt_ the same things he did. Smithers felt it better to let Keith do the talking. He liked Keith, to be sure. The man was young, seemed a tad naïve and insecure, but his puppy-like enthusiasm was endearing. It made Smithers feel good, being seen with a younger man. It was nice to have someone look up to him.

The gallery opened up into a solarium-like room with a reflecting pool. Smithers paused and clasped his hands behind his back, taking it all in. Keith slid over beside him, standing just close enough to be significant, but not so close as to actually touch.

Smithers held his head high, feeling himself oddly regal; as if he were the some ancient chieftain or cleric from the lands of the Nile.

Keith must've caught that.

He turned, and looked Smithers up and down, admiration in his eyes.

"You've done so much," he said quietly. "Business or not, it must be nice to have all those experiences."

Smithers glanced over at Keith, regarding him almost imperially. "It was," he admitted. "But that was a different time." He looked at the limestone temple before them. "Sometimes the world moves on, and leaves nothing but memories." He glanced at the brochure. "Would you like to see the Eurpean sculpture court?"

"Absolutely!" Keith paused, face clouding over for a moment. "The past might be memories," he began carefully, "but the memories remain a part of you." He paused. "So, in a way, we're all part of the past."

Smithers chuckled. "Well now, that's profound."

Keith beamed. "Thank you," he replied, his sentence ending with an odd abruptness.

Smithers shook his head. _He was going to try calling me 'sir,' again; I'm sure of it. Why? Do I really seem that way to him?_ Smithers chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. _Kids these days_ , he mused. He stopped and took out his cell phone. The voicemail icon was blinking. He hadn't noticed that earlier.

"Hang on a second, Keith." Smithers walked to the side of the reflecting pool by the window, and hit "listen."

A painfully familiar voice barked into his ear, "Smithers, you stubborn clod of a mule…" Smithers clenched his teeth and listened to the short message Mister Burns had left, demanding he read the letter. He'd almost forgotten about it: the formal one that arrived yesterday.

Smithers hit "repeat" and listened to the message again. This time, he didn't focus on the message, but the tone.

Burns sounded rattled, frantic almost.

Smithers had lived under the shadow of Monty Burns for most of his life, he knew the man's voice as well as he knew his own. Though the casual observer would've only heard anger, Smithers detected an undercurrent of desperation behind Burns' words.

Smithers felt an old, familiar tug at his heart.

He shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly. _I shouldn't have listened to that_ , he chastised himself. _I can't, Monty. I don't know what's wrong - and it's not that I don't care - but I can't go rushing back to mend your broken life._ He felt his eyes start to brim with unshed tears. _Whatever's going wrong for you, you'll have to figure it out yourself._ He ran a hand over his nose and mouth. _Monty, I'm sorry…_

"Waylon," a soft voice at his arm spoke up. "Is everything okay?"

Smithers looked over at Keith. "Just some ghosts from the past. Memories that won't stay gone, you know?"

Keith looked sympathetic and innocent at the same time.

 _No_ , Smithers thought, staring into Keith's soft brown eyes, _you don't know. You've never had your heart broken yet_. Smithers sighed, and this time didn't resist the urge to run his hand through Keith's dirty blond hair.

The young man tried to lean out of the way, but he smiled nonetheless. "You'll mess up my 'do," he laughed, trying to smooth his hair back down. It resisted adorably.

Smithers smiled, wanting to say more. His expression softened. "Let's go check out those sculptures, eh?"

Keith rocked back and forth on his heels eagerly. "Yes, sir!"

Smithers gave a slight snort, but his lips curled up nonetheless _. Sir, yet_. Was Keith actually serious, or just playing around. Smithers wasn't sure if it bothered him… or if he kind of liked it.

He gave Keith a playful shove. "Come on, you; get moving. Those statues won't wait forever."

Keith grinned, and pushed back. "Right? They might walk away at any moment. We'd better hurry!" He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Smithers shook his head, smiling. The incorrigible youth these days, he thought lightly, as he and Keith made their way to the European gallery.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns had not moved from the desk in his office at the manor. He probably would've sat there all night if Hercules hadn't started whimpering to go out.

Burns hung his head, stood, and scooped the dog into his arms. "We need to get you a cart or something, don't we beastie," he remarked as he carried Hercules outside.

He set the dog in the soft grass and stood nearby while Hercules hobbled about, trying to find the perfect spot to do his business. _Here I am_ , thought Burns sullenly, _Master of the Atom, reduced to watching a dog decide where to poop on my lawn. Ah, how the mighty have fallen._

Hercules finally found a spot that met his approval. He did what he needed to do, then toddled back over to Burns. Burns sat down on the step, and helped the dog climb up next to him. The irony of the entire situation was not lost on him.

He'd sent Smithers away, not expecting to miss him. Smithers left his dog behind, and obviously hadn't bothered to miss him! Burns rubbed Hercules ears absentmindedly. "He's gotten over both of us, eh beast? It's just you and me now."

Hercules might not have understood Burns' words, but he understood the tone. He wriggled under Burns' arm, and climbed into the old plutocrat's lap. Burns put his arms around the dog, and looked to the left, west, the direction of the setting sun.

 _If he hasn't called by now_ , Burns thought sadly, _he's not going to. It's best to just move on._ He got up, Hercules tucked under one arm, and rang his lawyer.

"Waylon Smithers is evidently not coming back," he announced to the man. "Stop the rent going to pay for his apartment, and cancel his lease. Have everything of his moved into storage here. If he wants it, he can come get it."

"Yes, Mister Burns," the lawyer replied. "We'll get that started first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

As Burns was making those decisions back in Springfield, Smithers was trying to stay awake on the ride back to Plateau City. He and Keith barely even scratched the surface of the art museum; there was no way it was possible to see everything in a single day.

Smithers resolved to go back there. He wanted to take his time and really soak in the fabulous pieces from history. Keith enjoyed it too, though he wasn't quite as good at sitting still to contemplate the subtleties. _No worry_ , Smithers thought contentedly. It was nice enough just to have some company for the day.

Keith seemed more awake than he did. No great surprise there, the man was still young; but he had a keen light in his eyes.

"You're a night owl, eh?" Smithers asked, yawning.

"You have to be when you're in the middle of your Master's," Keith agreed. "I mean, there are some nights I can't afford to sleep. I just have to get things done. I suppose I'm used to pulling all-nighters."

Smithers stretched his arms behind his head. "Ngh, not me," he grunted, feeling the satisfying pops along his spine as he arched his back.

Keith winced. "Was that your neck?"

"One of them was."

"Sounded like it hurt."

"Ah, it felt great." He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "So, Keith, still worried?"

Keith's brow wrinkled. "About?"

"About whether or not this was a date."

"Oh!" Keith blushed and laughed nervously. "Well, uhm, not so worried anymore…"

Smithers steepled his fingers and tapped the tips together. "That's good."

Keith looked modestly away and tucked his hands against his stomach.

"So," Smithers probed, "what was it?"

"It?"

"Today. Was it just a casual outing, or more like a date?"

Keith blushed, and squirmed a bit in his seat.

Smithers found himself enjoying Keith's shyness. He leaned forward, resting his lips on his fingertips. There was something about watching the young man squirm that excited him.

"It was… more like a date than not…" he began.

"Is that a bad thing?" asked Smithers as innocently as he could.

The red flush to Keith's cheeks was slowly creeping down his neck. "No… it wasn't a bad thing."

"Then that's good." If there was a moment to make the first move, Smithers thought, this would be it. He started to lean in, then caught himself. It still didn't feel quite right. Not yet anyhow.

In his mind, he heard the distraught tone to Burns' voice, recalled the unopened letter in the bottom of his dresser drawer. Things didn't feel quite done yet. Over, perhaps, but not _finished_.

I _s there every really such a thing as the end_ , Smithers pondered to himself. He reached over and patted Keith's leg. "I had a great time too, Keith. We'll have to do this again."

So thinking, he leaned back and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift with the swaying motion of the train.


	11. Chapter 11

Monday started the week anew for Waylon Smithers, with the familiar commute to work. He'd fortunately finished his rotation in infrastructure; not that he minded working with Sharon per se, but the work was tedious and rough. He had a great better appreciation for maintenance though. The idea of the nightmare Burns had put on the Springfield plant's department embarrassed him.

Overworked, underfunded, insufficiently trained… it was no wonder OSHA and the NRC kept breathing down their necks. Smithers vowed if he ever went back, he'd put the screws on Monty to get the place up to code. And maybe hire some people who actually had a college degree or two to oversee things. In that, at least, a solid lesson had been learned.

He was so lost in thought that he almost walked into Preston who was standing beside the timeclock, waiting. Smithers scanned Preston's face for any sign of recognition from "Shezeballe's" act on Saturday. Preston's face was the same as always. Not even a glimmer of anything. He truly hadn't recognized Smithers.

Smithers gave an inward sigh of relief. He'd been fairly certain Preston had no idea. It was amazing the difference a wig and some bronzer could make. Thank goodness for small blessings, eh?

"Ah, Waylon," Preston said haughtily, "good morning. We're moving you into hydrology today. I hope you brought sunscreen, you're going to be outside a good bit of the day."

Smithers winced as he fell into step beside Preston. With his fair complexion, burning was inevitable.

Preston adjusted his glasses, and continued to describe the process. This time, Smithers wouldn't be working under one specific person. There were a myriad of smaller divisions in hydrology, considering the complexity of the system.

The Primary system circled the reactor, a pressurized loop system that flowed through the reactor vessel and control rods, and through pipes in the Second circuit: the steam generator. The water from the Primary never mixed with water from the other systems, naturally.

The Secondary system was also a closed hydrology loop. Water, converted into steam from the contact with the heated Primary pipes, drove the turbine, which in turn drove the generators. From there, the water in the Secondary was cooled back down to a liquid via contact with condenser pipes, and moved to the steam generator where the cycle continued.

The Tertiary system was where the cooling took place. A more open system, warm water from the condenser heat exchange was piped into the cooling towers. It was sprayed over the exchange surface through mist-like distribution nozzles. There, it collected and dripped down, cooling as it went, and accumulating into a basic at the bottom. From there was pumped back into the condenser.

The cooling towers themselves, still part of the hydrology department, were natural draft cooling towers. Because the Tertiary circuit exposed the water to the risks of evaporation, fresh water had to continually be pumped into the basin from existing sources. Naturally, it was filtered and processed. In times of rain, when extra water accumulated, the cooled surplus was pumped back into the natural waterways.

All of that comprised hydrology.

Smithers was beginning to see how logical the layout of his training was: learning how to understand the equipment, how to tag it out for maintenance, how to do the physical repair work… at first it had seemed like the selection was random. He would've expected administration would've been first, maintenance last. How wrong he was.

Then again, Dimas did say he was a hands-on manager. Smithers wondered if this was the same training process that Dimas himself had used to learn his way around his Plateau City nuclear generating station. Smithers had to admit, unglamorous as parts were, the order made sense.

The rest of the week passed much like a blur.

Smithers woke up, ignored the letter in the bottom of his dresser, and waited for the weekend. In fact, on Wednesday he'd requested a half-day for Friday.

Dimas raised an eyebrow at the request, but granted it. Preston shook his head disapprovingly. "I expected as much," Preston scoffed. Smithers ignored the remark, and Dimas let it slide.

The half day was so that he and Keith could go to Niagara Falls. It was easier to do it now, before summer vacation started, while the kids were still in school and families weren't travelling.

Wednesday evening, after Dimas happily agreed to give Smithers permission to leave early under Preston's incredulous and scathing glare, Smithers met Keith at a nearby coffee bar. There, they discussed plans. They'd take the train in, cross the border, and stay on the Canadian side. There was a nice hotel that overlooked Horseshoe Falls. _You do have a passport, right?_ Smithers asked Keith.

The younger man nodded enthusiastically. _Absolutely! I used to go to Montreal for the night life. They have an active club scene up there. Hey, we should hit one of the nightclubs along the Niagara strip!_

 _I don't dance much_ , Smithers admitted. It was a bit of a white lie, but still more true than not.

Keith had laughed, and prodded Smithers. _It's a great way to relax_ , he pushed, _work off some stress._ He sipped his latte. _I don't know about your days, Waylon, but I'll take nearly any way to unwind that I can_. He winked.

Smithers sipped his coffee and tried not to think about the possible implications of Keith's statement. _We don't have to do anything_ , Smithers reminded himself. He didn't want to move too fast. Burns' unopened letter, and the voicemail he still hadn't responded to weighed heavily on his mind. Tonight, he decided, he'd address at least one of those two. Which one, he wasn't sure.

He and Keith parted ways, and Smithers caught the bus back to his hotel.

 _Letter or phone_ , he thought, _letter or phone._

The advantage of reading the letter meant that he didn't have to interact directly with Mister Burns. However, Smithers knew once he started reading it, he wouldn't be able to stop reading. And once he read it, those words would be stuck in his mind. Some things, once seen, cannot be forgotten.

That letter… what if it were a formal declaration that Burns never wanted to see him again? That was something Smithers already felt he'd accepted. What if, though, it was a plea for him to come back to Springfield; to Burns?

Smithers wasn't sure that would be any easier for him. He wasn't ready to face Mister Burns again. Thinking about it made his heart ache. He rubbed his neck absentmindedly. Why did this sort of pain feel so real?

No; the letter was not an option.

If, on the other hand, he called Burns, then he could simply hang up if the conversation started to get too unpleasant. It seemed less personal then running the risk of reading Burns' heart put to paper.

When he got back to his apartment, he made himself as comfortable as he could, poured a small shot of sipping whiskey, and grabbed his phone.

 _Here goes nothing_ , he thought, heart in his throat, as he dialed the familiar numbers of Burns' private line.

The phone rang several times, and Smithers was debating hanging up when Burns answered.

"Ahoy hoy?" The familiar voice flowed through his ear, causing Smithers' chest to constrict painfully around his lungs. The world felt as if all the air had been sucked out of it.

"Ahoy? Hello? Is anyone there?"

Smithers took a deep, rattling breath. _Now or never_.

"Hello, Monty."

"Smithers?" Surprise, then elation. "Waylon Smithers! It is you!" The joyful tone was replaced immediately by anger. "Why the hell have you been ignoring my calls? Who the devil do you think you are, Smithers! Why I have half a mind to fly out there tonight and wring your impudent neck! If I had known exactly how-"

Smithers interrupted Burns' rant just as the man was gathering steam. "-Enough, Monty. If you can't be civil, I'm done."

The line was silent.

"Monty, are you there?"

"… Did you just tell me to be quiet?"

"Not in those words, no."

There was an awkward pause. Smithers could practically hear Burns' heartbeat through the line.

"I see," Burns replied deflatedly. "So, Smithers, did you read that letter I sent you?"

Smithers took a deep breath. "No, Monty, I did not."

"Oh." A pause. "Uhm, why not?"

Smithers licked his dry lips. "Because, quite honestly, I'm not sure I want to read what you have to say. Whatever you want to tell me, you've got me on the line. Go ahead and say it." Smithers tapped his feet nervously. "I'm waiting…"

"Smithers…" Burns' voice trailed off. "I… just read the damned letter you bullheaded oaf." Burns' words might've been harsh, but his tone was yielding. It wasn't an order; it was a plea.

"Why can't you just tell me?"

"Because I can't, Smithers! I don't have to explain things further than that." A long silence, then Burns spoke again. "When are you coming back?"

Smithers took a sip of his whiskey and drummed his fingers on the rim of the glass. "I'm not sure I am," he replied brusquely.

"Oh."

"I find the lifestyle out here suits me. You were right, _Monty_ , I did need to get out and see the world."

"I see," Burns replied. His voice which had moments ago been harsh and full of rage now seemed old and forlorn. "I suppose you'll be wanting your belongings sent out to you."

"I'll come get them myself when I'm ready."

"I see. Uhm, Hercules…" his voice trailed off for a moment. "He had a bit of an accident. He's okay," Burns quickly added, "but I thought you should… Eh, I thought you should know."

"What did you do to him?"

"Why do you think _I_ did anything to him?"

Smithers narrowed his eyes, even though Burns couldn't see it. "Because I _know_ you," he snarled softly, emphatically.

Burns sighed heavily into the line. "He was under my chair. I didn't see him when I stood up. I stepped on him. He broke his leg."

"Jesus, Monty," Smithers swore, putting his glasses on the table and massaging his eyes. "I can't even."

"… Can't even what, Waylon?"

Smithers, so focused on his dog, didn't even hear the use of his first name. It was arguably a pity.

"I can't leave any part of me around you that you won't break, can I? Everything that's important to me you just have to hurt, don't you? I can't deal with this anymore… with you. I need to get going." He lifted the phone away from his head for a minute and massaged his temples.

("You are coming back, right?" Burns asked through the line. Smithers didn't hear it.)

Smithers lifted the phone back to his ear.

"I'm not sure what my next plan is, after I've finished studying under Dimas. Maybe I'll ask him for a job, and work for him from now on."

"You know you're only there because _I_ asked him to take you, right? You know I could end that with a single phone call."

Smithers' felt anger rise. The sensation that had been clutching his chest suddenly ignited. "If you think that will change anything," he snarled. "You go right ahead and try it. There are other fish in the sea, Monty. There's a convention in Albany this month, lots of head-hunters will be there. Maybe I'll just dust off my résumé. I'm sure Mister Dimas would give me a sterling recommendation."

"No one will hire you. I'll make sure of that."

"Hah, you're not as powerful as you think you are, Monty! Don't push me. I'll be back for Hercules as soon as I find a place out here." Smithers paused. "And I swear to god, Monty, if you do anything to my dog…"

"The little animal is fine," Burns' tone had weakened to a faint whisper. "I'll take care of him for you."

"You'd better." Smithers glanced at his watch. "Like I said, I have to go. Goodbye, Monty."

"Read the letter, Smithers."

Smithers gave a snort of anger, and disconnected. (Had he waited a second longer before hanging up, he might've heard a desperate "…please" from Burns.)

No, Smithers thought, he'd read the letter when he felt like it, not a day before. He tossed his phone down on the couch and paced the living room viciously. Hearing Monty's voice (he couldn't even call him Mister Burns anymore) had left his emotions a veritable tempest. The maelstrom roiled from one side of his being to the other, waves crashing between anger and heartache; and smashing any feeling in between.

He wanted to go out. He wanted another drink. He wanted to scream and throw his phone through the wall.

In the end, he did none of these things.

He sat down on the bed, grabbed his MyPod and cued up a favorites list called Strings. The first track was a piece for classic guitar, called "Malaguena." The second was actually a MIDI-created piece called "Resonant Chamber." It sounded as real as any stringed instrument. Smithers closed his eyes, and let the melodious refrains calm the storm in his soul.

Ah; but Friday could not come soon enough.


	12. Chapter 12

Smithers met Keith at the train station around three o'clock. They did the awakward "hug-or-handshake" dance, before finally deciding on one of those one-arm chest-bump hugs common among men.

Smithers had packed everything he needed into a small shoulder bag. One of the things Smithers had learned in his travels with Burns was the art of light packing. He had been expected to carry all of Burns' belongings in addition to his own. Smithers joked that by now, he could fit a full week's worth of survival gear in a backpack. It was an exaggeration, but not by much.

Keith snickered as he eyed Smithers' tiny luggage. His own was a large-sized rolling suitcase, with a second small travel bag attached to it.

"We'll only be gone two nights," Smithers observed.

Keith blushed. "Gotta be prepared, right?"

Smithers patted his small pack. "I am. It's called 'traveling light.'"

They stowed their luggage and took their seats. They were traveling coach, seating similar to that of a plane. It would be a long trip, they'd arrive around ten PM, but there was a dining car, and an observation car. Smithers found he was looking forward to Keith's company.

He slid into the seat next to Keith, and tucked his MyPod into the pouch on the seat in front of him.

"How'd that project go last week?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Keith shrugged. "I hope my 'prof' likes it. After sixty pages, he'd better," Keith laughed.

"A thesis?"

Keith's laughter was proving infectious. "I wish. That'll be even longer. This was my semester project for economics. 'Assessment of Risk Analysis in a Post-Modern Free-Market Economy,' he remarked, quoting his title.

Smithers couldn't help but chuckle. "Sixty pages on that? What exactly is that anyhow?"

Keith rubbed his chin. "A lot of bullshit," he chuckled. "It's mostly about whether or not the market tools we use today are good at predicting how much risk one should take in a global economy. It's not all words. Some of those sixty pages had graphs on them." Keith shrugged. "I like economics. What can I say?"

* * *

The Springfield Nuclear Plant had survived a full forty-eight hours without Burns coming in. The staff knew the routine, and ran things as smoothly as possible. Lately, Burns hadn't been much of a leader anyhow. He'd taken to barring himself in his office, emerging only to sic the hounds on unsuspecting workers.

Earlier in the week, he'd walked into the break room to find a pair of employees, Lenny Leonard and Carl Carlson engaged in a heated dispute over who got the last cream-filled donut. Burns had ordered both men to solve the dispute with a fight to the death.

While they were throwing weak punches like schoolgirls, some fat carbon blob from Sector 7G meandered over, grabbed the donut off the tray, stuffed it in his mouth, and waddled off muttering _Mmm, pre-fight donut_. Burns lost his heart for a good old-fashioned gladiator match.

 _You two, stop that pitiful endeavor. You'll both die of old age before either of you woeful pinheads figured out how to swing a proper uppercut_. Burns turned, and walked dejectedly back to his office.

These past few days, he hadn't bothered going in to the nuclear plant at all. His mind was still whirling from his conversation with Smithers on Wednesday. He knew exactly how long he could be missing in action before things got out of control. About five days. He had the rest of the week, the weekend, and by Monday he'd have to be back on his game.

You're losing this battle, Monty, the little voice chirped.

 _I'll win it. I'll get him back_ , Burns thought angrily, challenging the little voice inside his mind.

By force? Do you honestly think that would work?

Burns rubbed the sides of his head, groaning softly. _It's all I know_.

The little voice seemed unimpressed. Whatever happened to you, Monty? Just the other week you wanted to get a room prepared for him to move in, and now, you want to destroy him. What would your father say?

 _My father is dead._

What would your grandfather say?

 _He's dead and moldering in his grave._

That may be. But you still know the answer.

 _My grandfather would say 'faith, family, and friendship are three demons one needs to slay if one wants to be successful.' My father? He'd say 'you need to follow your heart, because if you do, it'll always see you though.'_ Burns sighed.

He got up and walked to his chamber in the residential wing. Beside his massive bed was a night stand with a locked drawer. He paused, fished a key out from a chain around his neck, and unlocked the drawer. The drawer was empty, save for a small carved ebony box.

Hands shaking, Burns lifted the box out. The contents hadn't seen the light in so many years, Burns thought, remembering. He sat down on the side of the bed weakly, and opened it. Inside were two identical white gold rings, strung together on a delicate, matching chain. They looked like a pair of wedding bands. For all intents and purposes to Burns, they were.

He lifted the chain out, cupping the rings delicately in his hand.

They were slightly different sized, naturally. One was his, the other… the other was his former partner's. Waylon Sr. had given Burns the ring only a few weeks it seemed before his death. Before saying goodbye to Waylon Sr.'s remains, Burns had taken a moment to remove the ring. It's so no one could possibly identify the body, he told himself. He knew, even then, he hadn't believed that.

No, he'd kept it because it served as a reminder.

For years after Waylon Sr.'s death, he wore his own on the chain around his neck. He'd finally stopped wearing it when Waylon Jr. started working full time for him. He didn't want the young Smithers to see it, ask questions about it. Given Burns' lack of modesty, it was inevitable some day he'd forget to take it off before Smithers assisted him with selecting the day's wear, or some other exposing task.

The last thing he needed was for Waylon Jr. to ask about it.

Burns had put the rings together, and locked the drawer, vowing never to open it again. Just like Waylon Sr.'s room upstairs. Burns sighed and folded the rings in a fist. He was sure doing a lot of nevers as of late.

Carefully, slowly, he uncurled his fingers and lifted the ring that he'd once worn up. He peered at it, remembering. The inscription was still there, delicately engraved on the inside of the band _Forever as Yours. WJS_. The final part of the inscription was the date Waylon Sr. had started working for him. It was the closest thing to an anniversary they'd ever had.

Burns studied the ring with a quiet intensity.

Smithers, his _young_ Smithers, rarely ever added the suffix "Junior" to his name. Burns knew a lot of that came from the fact the Smithers had never really known his father. Smithers was just a baby when his father died. _Forever as Yours_ … that wasn't limited to the past, Burns reflected. It seemed fitting, even now.

All these years that Burns knew Waylon Jr., he thought he, C. M. Burns was the one in control. Now, it seemed, Smithers had been the one with the power from the beginning. _Like this ring_ , Burns thought as he slipped the chain with both rings on over his neck. _He's had me wrapped around his finger the entire time, and neither of us ever knew it._

Burns reached over and stroked Hercules absentmindedly. The tiny dog had become an ever-present companion in Smithers' absence.

You have to tell him, the voice remarked. Even if it doesn't change anything, you have to tell him the truth.

 _It won't change anything_ , Burns thought sadly. _He's lost to me._

Perhaps, yes, that may be true. Go to the convention, say goodbye. You need closure, Monty, and you know it.

As usual, whatever inner conscience he had spoke true.

Burns lay down on the bed, pulling both Hercules and his plush bear Bobo into his arms. The terrier gave a squeaky little yawn, and licked Burns' face. He curled his tiny, furry body against Burns' gaunt chest.

Arms around the only loved ones he had in Burns Manor, and indifferent to the time of day, Burns tried in vain to sleep.

* * *

It was a long train ride, it gave Keith and Smithers a good amount of time to chat.

"You were married once?" Keith asked incredulously, eyes full of awe.

Smithers nodded. "It didn't work out."

"Why not?" he pressed.

"Simply put, it was a lavender marriage. I thought it would work out somehow. I was naïve. It fell apart," he made an exploding gesture with his hands. "A complete disaster."

"What happened to your wife?"

Smithers shrugged. "Who knows? She never wanted to hear from me again after the divorce, so I let it go."

"Do you miss her?"

Smithers shook his head, smiling. "You sure ask a lot of questions there, Keith."

Keith blushed and fidgeted in his chair, hand accidentally(?) bumping Smithers' in the process. "I just want to know how you knew… how people know… if they're," he struggled for words, "you know…"

"Gay?" offered Smithers.

Keith nodded. His expression made it clear he was grateful for Smithers saying the word so he didn't have to.

 _Poor, shy, adorable lad_ , Smithers thought. He reached over and gave Keith's hand a squeeze. "It's not like ever know exactly. It's more like you realize what you don't like, and if you're gay, or on the gay side of the spectrum, you realize you just aren't interested in physical relations with a woman." He shrugged. "It's that simple."

Keith turned his hand so that his palm was against Smithers' palm, and curled his fingers around Smithers' hand. He seemed to accept that answer, though Smithers could tell from his expression that his thoughts were still sorting themselves out.

"Are we...?" he paused. "Are we a couple?"

Smithers beamed, and wrapped his fingers around Keith's warm hand. "Maybe it's going that way. I'm still sorting things out myself."

"Like whether you're… you-know… or not?"

"Oh no," Smithers laughed. "I figured out a long time who I like." His eyes clouded over for a moment, remembering when he started realizing he had feelings for Burns. "I, um, I had a 'type,' if you will. A man I thought I'd give the world for. It didn't work out."

"You two broke up?"

Smithers shook his head, still holding Keith's hand. "No. He wasn't into me. I kept thinking he might be, and I didn't get seriously involved with anyone while he was in the picture, but in the end it wasn't meant to be." Smithers shifted his feet. His relationship with Burns felt more like a divorce than what happened when he and his wife called it quits.

Though there had never been a physical component to his dynamic with Burns, the emotional invest Smithers had put in was more than he'd ever done with his marriage. He wasn't sure, even now, how truly _over_ Burns he even was. He wondered, deep in the back of his mind, if he'd _ever_ truly move on from Burns. _Perhaps_ , he thought, looking at Keith out of the corner of his eye, _we don't ever really get over things. We just learn how to cope in time_.

It seemed like the serious conversations were over for now.

The rest of the ride they spent chatting lightly, learning a bit more about each other.

Keith wanted to know all about Smithers, the placed he'd traveled to, what it was like running a nuclear plant and being one of the most powerful people in Springfield. _I was never 'powerful_ ,' Smithers said laughing.

 _Are you kidding?_ Keith replied. _You had that town by the bullring. Your boss depended on you, you could have anything, do anything you wanted and people never questioned it_.

 _I didn't want power_ , Smithers admitted.

 _No; but they gave it to you anyways. That's true power right there. Not the stuff people seize by force or intimidation, but the sort people give willingly. That's how leaders are made, sir._ Keith couldn't help but add that last word; and a wink.

Smithers steepled his fingers, rested his mouth on his fingertips, and thought about Keith's words. Keith accused him of being a man of influence; Burns had called him, what had he said? A microscopic little cog? Something like that. Smithers interlaced his fingers and rubbed his hands together. A tiny piece, he speculated, like the pin to a grenade. _Can the submissive actually be the one with the power_ , he questioned. It was a new idea he'd never entertained before.

With that in the back of his mind, Smithers asked Keith about his story.

The young man was, like he said, a native of the region. He'd never been in a long term relationship, though he'd dated a bit. He was, like Ellis at the bar had said, questioning a lot about himself. He hadn't talked with his family about things yet.

He was the middle child, with an older sister, and older brother, and two younger brothers. His youngest brother was had just started high school this year. _My parents married young_ , he explained. His parents had been high school sweethearts who got married in their late teens, and somehow, against all odds, had made things work.

By the time the train arrived at Niagara Falls, both men knew a great deal more about one another. Smithers hadn't told Keith the story about Mister Burns, and had no intention of doing so. Sometimes a bunch of little half-truths were better than one big truth.

They passed through customs and caught a shuttle down to the hotel.

The river was on their left as they rode downtown, the entire area bathed in a glowing mist. Lights along the falls changed the fog from red to yellow to blue, and every shade in between. The hotels shone with their own neon lights. Everything was coated in a heavy dew, and the light reflected off the wet surfaces, given the entire downtown a very surreal feeling.

The hotel Smithers had reserved was located right by the falls, appropriately named Fallsview Casino. The shuttle dropped them off at the front entrance. Keith had wanted to pay for everything, but Smithers resisted. _Let me at least book the room and train tickets_ , Smithers said. _I don't have student loans hanging over my head._ Keith bobbed his head in agreement.

So saying, Smithers reserved a single room, two queen beds, with a wonderful overview of the falls.

They made their way up to the room, and tossed their stuff on the floor. Smithers flopped down on one of the beds and threw and arm over his face. "I don't know about you, Keith, but I'm exhausted."

Keith laughed. "The night's still young, Waylon! Let's go hit up that club down the road. You remember, the one I told you about on the train?"

Smithers had seen the photos. It looked like a fairly wild place. The website showed people in crazy costumes, ice buckets of campaign and glow sticks, things like that. He took his glasses off and ran a hand through his lengthening hair. "Seriously? I don't know. Couldn't we go tomorrow night?"

Keith shook his head. "Tonight'll be fine. You just need something to wake you up a bit."

Smithers head Keith rusting in his duffle bag. A few seconds later Smithers heard the sound of a small metal object being set on the dressed.

He propped himself up on one elbow and put on his glasses. "Keith, what are you doing?"

Keith looked at him, and winked. He set a small metal tin, it looked like an old film canister, made of tin and with a screw-top. "Hang on," Keith replied. He pulled out a small square mirror, and started unscrewing the canister.

Smithers felt his pulse quicken uncomfortably. "Uhm, Keith…" he began uncertainly, watching with an increasing sensation of dread as Keith slowly poured some of the contents onto the mirror. It looked like baking powder. Smithers knew it wasn't.

Keith carefully used his credit card to draw the powder into lines, then pulled a dollar bill out of his wallet and rolled it into a tight tube.

Smithers shook his head. "No, Keith. Please don't tell me you're doing this…"

Keith ignored Smithers, and, covering one nostril, used the rolled bill to sniff up one of the powdery lines. He coughed and sniffed a few times, and rubbed his nose. He smiled warmly at Smithers and gestured to the other line. "You'll be wide awake in no time," he beamed.

Smithers sat up fully, and put his hands out. "No," he said, face stern. "I am not okay with this."

Keith raised his eyebrows, confused. "What? A little flake won't hurt anyone. It'll help you have fun, that's all."

Smithers stood up. "In case you didn't notice, I _was_ having fun," he snapped. "Up until now."

Keith wiped his nose with his hand and rubbed his palms together. "Jeeze, Waylon. Everyone does it."

"Clearly everyone does _not_ do it," Smithers folded his arms over his chest. "Because _I_ don't."

"How do you think I managed to stay up doing all-nighters?"

"I figured you used coffee and willpower like the rest of us," retorted Smithers. He started grabbing his belongings and stuffing them violently back into his travel bag.

Keith shook his head. "Hey, whoa, wait! Where are you going?"

"Out," replied Smithers angrily. "And I won't be back." He stormed to the door, then paused. Sighing heavily, he turned around and faced Keith. "You know, I was really getting to like you. I was looking forward to this weekend maybe turning into something more. But _this_ ," he gestured to the paraphernalia on the dresser, "I am _not_ okay with. I can't believe you thought it would be a good idea to bring cocaine into a foreign country! Like nothing could've happened. And I was travelling with you, for Chrissake!" Smithers ran his hands through his hair. "Do you know what could've happened if we'd been caught?"

Keith gave a shrug, which ordinarily would've looked cute and innocent, but now looked flippant. "We weren't, were we?"

"Well maybe you don't care about that, but I do. I'm sorry Keith, I'm not having any part of this. I've come too far in life to have it all ruined just because my travelling companion made a stupid decision."

"So you're just leaving," Keith snapped, "just like that? Where the hell do you think you'll go, Waylon?"

Smithers folded his arms and stared levelly at Keith. "I've coordinated travel plans from one end of the world to the other. I think I can find my way back to Plateau City from here. Goodbye, Keith."

Smithers swung his travel bag over his shoulder and swept out the door. He didn't bother looking back. There was nothing more in that room that he cared to see.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Author's Note:_**

 _If you haven't yet read one of my other pieces, "Winter of My Heart," this might be a good time to do so before reading further. While reading it's not inherently necessary to this chapter, it might offer a bit more background information you, dear Reader, might appreciate. As I've said before, these stories, "Unfolding of Waylon Smithers," "Winter of my Heart," and "Nuclear Attraction" were, once upon a time, all just pieces of a much larger tale._

 _Ultimately, it works better divided up this way; and you don't need to read NA or WoMH to enjoy "Unfolding." But if you're one of these people who like the so-called 'Supplemental Material' features of your DVDs, you'll probably enjoy taking a quick read through "Winter of My Heart" before continuing here._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

Waylon Smithers didn't wake up until close till noon on Saturday. When he staggered into his apartment at seven that morning, he hadn't even bothered unpacking, or undressing.

He'd caught the midnight train back to Plateau City. On the ride back, he'd tried to doze as best he could. It was a fragmented and disconnected sleep; at times he wasn't sure if he were awake or dreaming. Other times he knew he was dreaming, but the images were so strange.

One part was a dream, he knew for certain. He couldn't remember it entirely. He was back at Burns Manor, sitting in Burns' personal study, a room that even he was rarely welcomed into. In his dream, he'd been sitting by the cold fireplace, looking at a photo album with Burns. There were pictures of the nuclear plant in various stages of development, photos of a handsome younger Burns, and even pictures of his father. In his dream, Burns then pulled out a second album. This one was full of pictures of him: Smithers Jr.

He dreamed he saw a photo of himself chauffeuring Burns somewhere. There was one where he was being chased down Mammon Drive by the hounds. A strange one where he was prostrate on some wooden porch, hugging Burns' shadow. _When I lost you, I was so angry. I wanted to destroy everything. Now, I just want you to come home_ , Burns remarked as they turned a page.

The dream shifted. Smithers was now standing on the bow of Burns' yacht, looking back at the rapidly disappearing shoreline. The photo with pictures of him was still in his hands.

Burns was in the wheelhouse, piloting them out to sea at full speed. _Where are we going?_ Smithers yelled over the roar of the engines. He tried to climb up the narrow staircase, but the ocean was rough. The waves came, knocking the rolling the boat nearly over.

Smithers feet slipped on the rungs, and it was only his tenacious grasp on the handrails that kept him from falling over, but the album slipped from his grasp. He watched in dismay as it vanished into the foamy water.

Somehow, despite the storm, he managed to make it to the top. When he got in, the wheelhouse was empty. No one was at the helm. The yacht listed wildly with each swell.

Smithers lunged forward and grabbed the wheel, fighting against the current to turn the craft around. His eyes scanned the dark horizon. In the distance, he saw the faint flash of a lighthouse. He was in the act of navigating towards it when the train had finally lurched to a stop, jarring him awake, and out of his phantasmal world.

The rest of the trip back to his apartment had been a blur. He felt absolutely exhausted, emotionally and physically.

Smithers woke up face down on the bed, travel bag on the floor next to him, still in his jeans and tee-shirt. His hair was completely disheveled, and he had a bit of day-old stubble starting to form. Smithers rolled over and looked at the time, then sat up. He wondered disjointedly how Keith was faring, but a quick scan of his phone showed no texts, and he wasn't interested in sending the first one.

Smithers got up, stripped down, and took a scalding hot shower. He liked the water hot; the hotter the better in most cases. It made him feel refreshed. He dried off, shaved, and had to confess a haircut would be in order. Fortunately, there was a barber shop nearby.

He slipped on a pair of jeans, and a plain white tee shirt, and headed out.

The day was beautiful, clear, but not too hot. Smithers strolled down the main avenue, feeling remarkably refreshed despite his late night.

Now, Saturday, Smithers' mind was still preoccupied as he checked in at the barber's shop, and sat down in the chair. He wanted the sides trimmed short again, but the top left long in front. They gladly obliged, crisping up the shape of his undercut style. If he added a bit of product, he could now pull of a well-styled pompadour.

Feeling refreshed, and not quite ready to go home, he made his way down to J. Vernie's, and was glad to find Leon working. Smithers pulled up a barstool, ordered a Diet Coke, and asked for a lunch menu.

"Not your usual today?" Leon asked.

Smithers shook his head. "I had a very late night; eh, technically a very early morning. I need something to keep me awake a bit longer."

Leon nodded, and poured his drink. "Weren't you and Keith going to Niagara Falls this weekend," Leon probed, curious.

Smithers gave a sad little shrug. "That didn't work out like we'd planned."

"What happened," Leon asked, leaning in. "He didn't flake on you did he?"

Smithers' head popped up. "'Flake?'" he asked, caught off guard.

Leon's deep eyes looked perplexed.

"Oh," Smithers realized, "'flake' as in not show up!" He chuckled ruefully at his own misunderstanding. "No, he showed up. We got to Niagara last night." Smithers shifted in his seat. "He wanted to go out. He's a, eh, a bit too into the party-and-play scene," he remarked, trying to be as discrete as possible. Smithers shook his head. "If he wants to do that, that's his choice. But I'm straight edge. And we stayed on the Canadian side. I wasn't too thrilled that he decided to carry through customs, and decided to come back by myself."

"Awww, honey," Leon crooned. "Are you okay?"

Smithers nodded. "I am, actually." He selected a sandwich of the menu. "I thought I'd be upset, but," he shrugged, "I'm not." Smithers interlaced his fingers thoughtfully. "I'm just glad I found out sooner than later, before anything got too serious, you know?"

Leon nodded. "True that," he agreed, nodding, light reflecting off his golden earrings. "Are you worried about Keith," he asked gently.

Smithers shook his head. "I feel like I should be; like if I were a better person I _would_ be concerned… but I'm not. It's his life, his choices. Everyone's got to find their own way, make their own decisions; right?"

Leon patted his arm. "Exactly. Seems like you've done a lot of thinking on this, Waylon."

Smithers took a sip of his Coke. "I've had time to think about a lot lately." His mind drifted, unbidden, back to Burns. What was in that letter, seriously? At this point, it might almost be worth the risk to find out.

His sandwich arrived, and Leon left him to eat in peace. After lunch, he went down to Monument Park and sat, looking over the river several hundred feet below. He wished he'd brought his MyPod along. Music always seemed to help him think. Only a mere hundred feet below, the black-winged gulls glided, calling out to one another with their strange, meowing voices. Behind him, the sounds of the city faded into a white noise backdrop. It might not have been a song, but it was a sort of music in its own way.

Smithers sat, lost in thought. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, only that the shadows beside him had lengthened considerably, and the day was beginning to cool. He got up, stretched, and made his way back up town to his apartment.

Sunday came and went without much fanfare.

Smithers went to the gym, ran a few miles, and lifted weights. No texts came in, no missed calls. Social media was fairly quiet. He noticed Keith had unfriended him, and felt a slight touch of regret, but nothing significant. He almost thought about calling Burns, just to hear the man's familiar voice.

 _What would you even talk about?_ he asked himself; and changed his mind.

Instead he pulled out the letter and set it on the table.

 _Tomorrow_ , he told himself, _or maybe the day after that. Sometime though, I'll get to you._

When Monday arrived for Waylon Smithers, the routine was old hat. He found himself eager to start the new week. He arrived at the plant, checked in with Preston, and made his way to the hydrology department. The letter accusingly on his table, still unopened.

By mid-week, the letter had created a presence no less threatening than a live grenade. Still, Smithers couldn't bring himself to open it. Finally, he grabbed a ballpoint pen and some sheets of paper from his computer bag, and sat down to write his own.

 _Dear Mister Burns, Monty;_

 _I'll cut to the chase. No, I still have not read the letter you sent me. I'm not sure I ever will; and I want to tell you why. The way I see it, what could you possibly have left to say to me? You've said just about every hurtful thing you ever could. You chose your words like needle-tipped darts, and hurl them with intent to wound._

 _I don't think there's a single part of my soul left you haven't pierced one way or the other._

 _In that, I don't need to read it if it shall just prove to be more of the same. I'm sorry, Monty, but at this point, there's nothing left for you to hurt. I've grown numb to your barbs._

 _I'll admit, I did wonder if perhaps you'd actually said the opposite: and confessed some sort of affection for me. Therein lies the irony. I've been your friend and faithful companion for the last twenty years. Through it all, perhaps I've not always been forthcoming, but I've never been completely discrete either._

 _If you wanted to tell me you had some sort of fond regard for me, beyond fleeting appreciation when I'd done something to benefit you, you had two decades to do it._

 _What could you possible want to say now that you hadn't said in all those opportunities you had? Or, how do you think you could possibly hurt me anymore? You have no power over me._

Smithers thought of what Keith had said.

 _Power's not something you can simply take by force. Sure there's fear, but that's just a fleeting control. True power endures, and it's given to one by those around them. How many people, other than you, talk about your grandfather? Even remember his name? None; because he ruled by fear; and in the end, was powerless. The tyrant of the Burns Estate lies turning to dust, and no one visits his grave._

 _I'm sure that will be you someday._

 _Monty, you had a lifetime that I gave you power over me._

 _I gave it freely, openly, even one might say lovingly._

 _In the end, it meant nothing to you. I see that now. I dreamed about that photo album I saw once. I'm sure you remember. I found it in your private study and you yelled at me for flipping through it. I saw the pictures of you and my father working together. It doesn't take a genius to tell you respected him as an equal. Clearly you're capable of treating another person with civility._

 _Unfortunately, that person was not me._

 _You can't keep kicking someone, Monty, and expect them to stay around. Even a beaten dog will eventually run away._

 _So no, I have not read your letter. And no, I don't know if I ever will. Maybe some year, when I am old and grey, I'll find it in a trunk somewhere, and finally want to know the answer of what you felt was so important to say. Important, and yet you couldn't say it to my face._

 _Well, Monty, if it's not important for you to say, then it's not yet important for me to read. I'm sorry, but that's the truth._

 _I hope this letter finds you well._

 _Good luck in your future endeavors._

 _\- Waylon Joseph Smithers._

He did not add "Jr." to the end.

Smithers slipped the letter into business envelope, prepaid for overnight delivery, then went to the front desk to gather the label. The manager handed it to him, he attached it to the envelope, then dropped the letter unceremoniously into the mail slot. It would get picked up Thursday, delivered by Friday; Saturday at the latest. Smithers had a tracking number for it. He'd know when his letter arrived, then he'd wait and see what Burns did next… if Burns did anything at all, that was. He wasn't expecting a response.

Deep inside, in a corner of himself that he'd almost forgotten about, a tiny flame flickered bravely, a light in the darkness, holding on to some meager hope for a future someday.


	14. Chapter 14

C. Montgomery Burns read Smithers' letter twice, to be sure he hadn't missed anything. The man needed to proof-read better. He'd used the word "important" something like four times in the last few sentences. Beyond those technical gaffs, however, the thing that truly irked Burns was how off the mark Smithers had been in his assessments.

"That damnable, blind, flaming idiot," hissed Burns through clenched teeth. Did Smithers truly not see anything that he, Burns, had been trying to convey? Was he really that obtuse? Kicked dogs and barbed words? Pretty metaphors, certainly, but inaccurate.

Burns snapped his fingers, and Hercules' porter appeared. Though the dog's leg had been healing very nicely, Burns was not taking any chances. No, that little brute would be carried about, like it or not, until the cast was removed.

Fortunately, it seemed the terrier rather enjoyed being toted everywhere.

Burns smirked. The animal, it seemed, had more sense that its master.

"You know what I'm trying to do for you, don't you beastie," he purred as he rubbed Hercules' ears fondly. "Someone better tell that feeble-minded bedlamite 'master' of yours that he needs to stop thinking this has always been about him. Really," Burns continued, stroking the dog, "he's far too self-absorbed for his own good!"

Burns rose, motioning Hercules' porter to follow him. He muttered to himself as he walked to his office. "What does he think growth is? Some easy, painless process the side-effect of mere existence?" He gave a snort of contempt and sat down at his desk, motioning the servant to set Hercules nearby, then get out. "A tree grown in a sheltered hot-house will never be as strong as one exposed to the elements. Perhaps more fair, but weak at the core."

Burns cracked his knuckles. He couldn't abide weakness. He saw too much of it in himself.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Thaddeus Dimas' number. It might've been night on the eastern side of the country, but it wasn't so late as to be unreasonable yet. The phone rang twice, before Dimas picked up.

Prompt as ever, Burns thought approvingly.

"Monty! To what do I owe the pleasure of a call at this hour?"

"Business, of course Tad. What else?"

"Business indeed. So, what sort of business are we talking about?"

"Smithers. Specifically, my Smithers."

Dimas' voice rumbled with amusement, as if a chuckle were being held back. "Of course, your Smithers! Who else could claim him, eh? Ah, well, what about him, Monty?"

"Where is he in his training?"

Dimas chuckled. "Oh, moving right along. Ahead of what I'd expected, honestly. He picks up quick. Good worker too. He'd asked for a half-day on Friday, hmm, two weeks ago I think. I gave it to him. The fellow doesn't ask for much."

Burns ground his teeth. Smithers didn't ask for much; that was true, even though he'd habitually begrudged even the smallest of Smithers' requests on principle. "Why?"

"Why what," asked Dimas.

"Why did he want an early day."

"Oh that. He said he was going to Niagara Falls with a _friend_ he met." Dimas put an extra emphasis on the word "friend."

Burns jaw tightened further. "Smithers said it like that, did he?"

Dimas chortled mirthfully. "Oh no, Monty. Not at all. But I can read body language. His body said what his tone belied."

"I see…" Burns muttered slowly, voice dangerously soft.

"Oh, don't be a stick in the mud, Monty," Dimas remarked, dispassionately. "If the boy wants to go enjoy a weekend with someone, who am I to judge?"

"Did you ask who it was?"

Dimas sounded offended. "Monty, I don't pry into my employees' private lives. It's inappropriate. He said he and a friend were hoping to go to Niagara Falls that weekend; and asked if he could have a half-day so he could catch an earlier train. It's nearly a seven hour ride, you know."

"I don't care." Burns couldn't keep all the disdain from his voice. Smithers, taking a weekend get-away? Probably some romantic thing, given the setting. The idea of Smithers with anyone else set Burns' blood to boiling.

Burns drummed his fingers on his desk. "When's the convention in Albany?"

"Ah, changed your mind about going, Burnsie? Last I heard you'd told them quite soundly you wanted nothing to do with such frivolity; and refused entirely."

Burns ignored Dimas' casual use of nicknames. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have let it slide, but these were _not_ ordinary days. "Well, I've had one of my trademark changes of heart, it seems," he remarked as casually as he could. "So, back to Smithers a moment, you'd say he's completed his training?"

Dimas hummed thoughtfully. "He's done with engineering, infrastructure, hydrology; just wrapped up in mechanics and generation. I'm planning to assign him to Preston this coming week, get him started in administration. Then, yes, I daresay he'll be done."

"Forget the administration," Burns announced. "He's already over-qualified there. Put him on task, and keep him busy till the convention. I'll gather him up from there and bring him back with me."

"Just like that?" Dimas asked, the humor in his voice replaced with surprise. "What about his apartment out here? He's going to need to pack, and he's got friends he's going to want to say goodbye to before he leaves." Dimas' voice grew serious. "I'm sorry Monty, but I'm not okay with that. _You_ can tell him you want him to go back with you, but I'm not going to just hand him to you like so many spent fuel rods."

"He is mine."

"No, Monty," Dimas' tone took on a warning edge, rare for the usually light-hearted man. "He is not _yours_. Your employee, maybe; but you don't own him."

Burns hissed and sputtered, but failed to make a coherent word.

Dimas waited patiently on the line.

"Fine," Burns managed to spit out. "Then I will ask him if he'd please come back to Springfield with me."

"Are you willing to accept it if he says 'no,' or 'not yet?'"

"Who the hell do you think you are, Thaddeus, your father? Asking me such questions!"

Now it was Dimas' turn to give a snort. "Monty, we've known each other, what, nearly fifty years? If you can't be honest with me, and I can't ask you the hard questions, really what have we got?"

Burns gave a dry chuckle. "I'd say I've got someone who I have to watch my back around," he remarked carefully. "You're not your father, Tad. You've got an edge to you."

Dimas laughed. "That's true Monty; on both accounts. And the funny thing about an edge is it doesn't care what it cuts." He made a friendly, growling sound. "Don't worry, I'm not going to rock the boat. Not tonight anyhow. I'll make sure 'your' Smithers is ready to go, if he wants to."

"Good."

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Monty," Dimas remarked cheerfully.

"Hah, business is its own pleasure, Tad. You ought know that by now."

"Of course," Dimas crowed. "Goodnight, Monty. Try not to work too hard."

The conversation was at an end.

Burns pulled up the letter for the North American Atomic Energy Convention. It was a two-part event. The convention would be taking place in the quarter-mile long "underground city" of Albany, New York; known as The Concourse.

The Concourse stretched the entire length of the Empire State Plaza, much like an avenue. Various shops, banks, and even a post office lined the row. It connected the towers, museum, legislative offices, and capitol building in one centralized, underground hub.

The NAAE Convention was scheduled to take place at the massive subterranean hall located near the middle, on the southern edge of the Concourse. Afterwards, an invitation-only event, a semi-formal dinner banquet was being held at the observation deck of the tallest tower at the Plaza. It would be a chance for mingling and rubbing elbows.

Burns had initially dismissed the event regarding it as an insignificant private-sector affair, and beneath his notice. As he'd told Smithers years ago: If it doesn't involve legislators, it's not worth going to.

But that was then, and this was now.

He wasn't going to parlay with his fellow plant owners or investors. He couldn't have cared less about them. His mind was on Smithers. He put his head down against his desk. He saw Smithers' expressive brown eyes in his mind; they truly were the window to the man's soul. How many times had he seen those eyes light up with joy just because he walked in the room? Or the times he'd caused them to fill with tears at some cutting remark.

Burns wanted to look into those eyes again. He wanted to see them, not awash with unspoken pain, but sparkling in delight. He'd never said it to Smithers, but the man's smile could brighten the bleakest of days. He hadn't realized how accustomed to Smithers' presence he'd become.

Nor, Burns admitted, had he paused to consider how much he'd taken that companionship for granted. It was easy to think he'd always have Smithers, no matter what he said, or how poorly he treated the man. Burns had hedged his bets on Smithers' unwavering devotion, stifling as it could be, always winning out.

Burns glanced at the clock. It was getting late. He filled out his response card, indicating he would be attending both the convention and the soirée, and set it in his outbox.

Absentmindedly, his hand crept to his neck, and found the ring he had on its chain, tucked under his shirt. He ran his fingertips over the skin-warmed metal. For years, even after he no longer wore his ring on its chain, he'd find himself grabbing at his throat in times of stress. Now, he had something to hold on to.

It gave him a feeling of strength he'd thought he'd forgotten.

Burns stood up suddenly, proudly. He bent over and scooped up Hercules under one arm, then grabbed Smithers' letter off the table. Years ago, he would've thought that part of him, his courage and passion, had died with his partner. Not dead, he realized. Just dormant. Sleeping!

For the first time in so many years, his life had sense of purpose again.

He clutched the ring in his hand.

What's that his tyrannical grandfather used to say? _When you go to war, come home with your shield, or on it. Or don't come home at all_. That metaphor meant, of course, win or die. It wasn't perhaps the most cheerful analogy, Burns mused, but it was completely fitting.

Terrier and letter in his arms, he made his way upstairs to his bedchamber. There, he set Hercules on the bed, and slid Smithers' letter under his pillow. It was no love letter, but it was hand-written. Perhaps its mere presence would give him strength in these next few days.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took the matching ring out of his nightstand. What size was Smithers' finger, he wondered. He should be able to guess. He'd seen the man's hands enough, and had copies of every employee's handprints archived down in Human Resources at the nuclear plant. One could never be too careful. Trust was nice, but fingerprints were better, and handprints best of all. From that, and his memory, he should be able to get an accurate representation. He'd have this ring resized for his Smithers. His _dear_ Smithers.

Even if the man never wore it, even if his Smithers told Burns he never wanted to see him again, Burns would make sure the man at least kept the pocket watch and ring. They were Smithers' possessions by birthright, if nothing else.

Burns changed into his night clothes, and slid his thin body between the sheets. They were brutally cold against his skin, and he shivered involuntarily.

Sensing perhaps Burns discomfort, or merely seeking a more cozy place for himself, Hercules hobbled over to Burns. He turned in a circle exactly three times, then pressed his furry body against the back of Burns' legs.

Burns sighed. "Why are you all the way down there tonight, beastie?" He patted the pillow by his head. "Come on. I won't tell anyone if you don't."

The terrier padded over and curled up on the pillow. Burns smiled, glad no one was around to see his moment of sentiment, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Dimas met Smithers by the timeclock instead of Preston. "I know you usually get a debriefing from Preston every Monday," Dimas remarked as he guided Smithers to his office, "but there's been a change in the program. I hope you don't mind."

"No sir," Smithers replied as they walked, trying not to let his surprise show in his voice or face.

Dimas crossed behind his desk, and motioned Smithers to have a seat in one of the guest chairs. "You see, Waylon, I've been going over you evaluations from your trainers: Gary, Sharon," he twirled his hand, "all the rest. Everyone here has given you sterling reviews. Straight fives all the way down, and outstanding remarks." He shuffled through the stack of papers. "I was going to have Preston train you in the subtle nuances of administration, but Monty seems to think that would be a waste of both of your hours. Instead, you'll be joining Preston at my side. I'll be depending on you equally through this convention, and possibly beyond."

Smithers' breath felt caught in his throat. "Monty, er, Mister Burns? You've spoken with him recently?"

Dimas nodded, expression innocent. "We had a brief chat over the weekend. The man wanted to know how you were doing, where you were at with things." Dimas pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think you could be a strong asset to our team, even temporarily. I want you right at my side throughout the convention. It'll send a message."

"What message is that, sir?"

Dimas gave a toothy grin. Something about it reminded Smithers of a shark that had just smelled blood in the water. "Why Waylon, my dear chap, it will tell everyone that you are a man not to be trifled with."

Dimas rose, and gestured to the office he'd assigned to Smithers. "There's your space, make yourself at home. You can bring in a radio, no loud music, go to the parking lot if you're a smoker, and if you take the last of the coffee make a new pot. Other than that, you'll be handling whatever I need from you."

He spread his thick arms wide and gestured to his domain. "Welcome officially, Waylon Smithers, Chief of Plant Operations, to the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station!" He gave a deep chuckle. "Welcome at long last. We're glad to have you!"

He extended his bearlike-paw and shook Smithers' hand. "Now, go make yourself at home in your office. I'll be sending some work up shortly."

Smithers gave a little bow, and thanked him roundly; but the perplexed feeling didn't go away. As he walked into his office, sat down and powered up his laptop, he had the distinct feeling that he was just seeing the surface of the water. Whatever was swimming below was definitely large, and not necessarily benign. _When you see fins circling, think sharks not dolphins_ , he thought cautiously as he logged onto the network and accessed his employee email.

Speaking of sharks, where was Preston? He hadn't seen the man all morning. By now, at least Preston should've at least popped into Dimas' office with the morning reports. Smithers' mind wandered as he read a few group emails.

Something was up. Something was definitely going on. But what?

Smithers realized he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to find out.


	15. Chapter 15

Waylon Smithers found Chief of Plant Operations to be a little of everything, working closely under Thaddeus Dimas. He acted as a liaison, and handled departmental issues, both within single divisions, and interdepartmentally.

It was significantly different than his job as Burns' personal assistant. He didn't have to answer phones unless it was his line that was ringing, nor did he have to make calls on Dimas' behalf.

Preston surfaced a few days later, acting for all the world as if he'd never been gone in the first place. When Smithers casually tried to ask him where he'd been he replied arrogantly, on orders from Mister Dimas, and refused to speak further on the matter.

Smithers let the topic drop, and didn't bring it up again.

Days passed, blurring together. Smithers kept a countdown on his calendar until the North American Atomic Energy Convention, or "NAAECon" as they referred to it at the plant. In the evenings, he occasionally went down to The Lucky Lady with the now familiar gang of his coworkers. The heart of the group group consisted of Preston, Gary, Ruby (from accounting). Occasionally Antoine, and even more rarely Sharon would show up. Smithers found he enjoyed their company.

Back in Springfield, he didn't really have a so-called 'clique' that he spent time with. His social life was active, but the faces were an ever-marching parade; always new ones. Smithers hadn't realized he missed the connection that familiar companionship could provide. He watched Ruby and Antoine gang up on Preston, only to then defend him if someone else started teasing. Gary was friendly with everyone. Sharon generally sat back and let others do the talking, but if anyone was going to say something funny and outrageous, it was usually her.

There were others who joined them, but the main crew stayed the same.

Occasionally, he decided to skip dinner with his workmates, and went down to J. Vernie's. He'd shoot a few rounds of pool with Ellis, chat about the weather and current events. Smithers saw Keith from time to time, but Keith never approached him. That didn't bother Smithers at all. He didn't mind Keith, held no ill-will towards the younger man, but there really wasn't anything to discuss. Smithers was more than happy not to be drawn into some awkward "explain yourself" conversation.

Leon continued to work between both establishments. Smithers really wasn't sure what his schedule was. When he'd first started going to The Lucky Lady, Leon said he generally worked weekdays at J. Vernie's, but Smithers tended to see him working there on Saturdays. Smithers wondered vaguely if he'd misunderstood, but concluded it didn't cosmically matter.

The day of the convention eked ever closer.

Smithers knew Burns had gotten his letter: the delivery confirmation showed it had been received and signed for. Whether Burns read it or not he had no idea. He wondered if had really mattered. Ultimately, Smithers decided, it didn't matter. He'd carry on with day to day routine regardless.

Preston mostly stayed out of Smithers' way at work. Now that Smithers no longer had to report to him, he went on about his duties, following at Dimas' heel like an obedient puppy. If Dimas said 'frog' Preston would start hopping around, Smithers mused sardonically, watching them walk past his office. _I used to be like that_ , he thought, and shook his head. _Never again_ , he told himself. _Never again_.

The day before the convention, Dimas called Smithers and Preston into his office. He pointed to the guest chairs, and indicated both men sit before him. "Now," he said looking them up and down, "we'll be leaving bright and early tomorrow morning, traveling by chopper, of course. I've secured access to the helipad atop Corning Tower (thank you, Preston, for making that happen)."

Preston puffed his chest out proudly. "It wasn't easy, sir. All those new security regulations make getting flight authorization over the Plaza quite a bureaucratic nightmare. Fortunately I did not find such an endeavor the least bit taxing."

"Good for you, Preston." Dimas twirled his hand distractedly. "Now, moving on, the convention's nothing that special. If you've been to one 'nuke-con' you've been to all of them. What is significant though, is the gala afterwards."

Dimas turned toward Smithers. "Waylon, we all know Mister Burns has quite a thing for rubbing elbows with the powers that be. How much do _you_ know about corporate presentation?"

Smithers gave a slight tilt of his head. "I've learned mostly by watching him," Smithers admitted.

Dimas nodded. He raised head. "Preston, give Smithers your tablet."

Preston's grip on his ever-present tablet tightened noticeably. "But sir, my tablet," he protested. "I need it to keep everything organized!"

"You can use that PDA you have around here somewhere. Smithers will need that to stay on top of who's who, and our relationships thereof." Dimas gave a toothy, but cold, smile, and held out his hand. "Come come, give it over."

Preston, looking as if he had just been asked to give up his proverbial first-born son, hung his head and placed the tablet in Dimas' thick hand. He rubbed his fingers together anxiously, as if his empty hands no longer knew what to do with themselves.

Dimas ignored him.

Instead, Dimas made a few quick swipes, tapped in an entry, and passed it over to Smithers. "It's unlocked for you now; won't automatically block you out. It's networked both to our main company schedule, and to Public Relations' database. Here," he said, opening a file. "This shows all the names and faces that Plateau City Nuclear Generating Incorporated deals with. It also gives a brief bio of these people, and their relationship with us. Study this, memorize it. I don't want you walking around with your face in a screen all night. Use it only when you have to."

Smithers took the tablet, and closed the cover before setting it in his lap. "Yes, sir."

"Now," Dimas said, drumming his fingers, "is there anything I've forgotten?"

Preston raised a hand meekly. "The gala, sir."

Dimas chuckled. "Ah yes, that's right, the gala." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. "I don't think I need to beat it into either of you that everything you do will be reflecting our company… and me. That goes without saying that I expect formal attire. While the convention is business casual, the dinner is a black tie event; starting at seven PM." Dimas glanced at Smithers. "I trust you have the wear for that?"

Smithers nodded. "Absolutely." In fact, Smithers knew just the pair of cufflinks he'd wear. They were round, silver. The face was black, with the symbol of an atom lightly traced in copper enamel. He'd been told they brought out the warm colors in his eyes. Ah, that memory was bitter-sweet. He forced his mind back to the present.

"There will be the four of us in attendance," Dimas continued. "You two, myself (obviously), and Antoine."

Preston, bereft of tablet, looked utterly dismayed. "Antoine," he whined, "the man is a nightmare! He doesn't know how to behave, or how to dress for an event such as these. He'll embarrass all of us. Why can't we just leave him with the chopper?"

Dimas smiled, but there was a warning glint behind his eyes. "Antoine is a valued member of this team, Preston. He will be with us, and that's final." Dimas put a thick arm on the edge of his desk and leaned forward. "Now, any questions?"

Smithers and Preston shook their heads no.

Dimas laughed softly, approvingly. "Good, good. You two, take the rest of the afternoon off. I'll expect both of you at the helipad at seven AM, sharp. Good day, gentleman." He made a dismissing gesture, and turned his attention towards his laptop.

Smithers rose first, stealing a quick glance over at Preston. The lanky assistant seemed out of his element. Smithers felt an unexpected welling of sympathy for the man. It wasn't easy working exclusively for one person, knowing that there dozens of new candidates out there who would gladly take over. He almost felt like he should say something encouraging, but the words didn't come. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked back to his office, thinking.

Smithers skipped his morning workout. He wanted to make sure he arrived early. He snatched Preston's tablet off the kitchen table, tucked it neatly into his day bag, and slung his garment bag over his shoulder.

The trip to the nuclear plant was so familiar Smithers hardly even noticed his surroundings. He got off at the train station, and made his way across the outside walk to Dimas' personal helipad. Antoine was already there, going through pre-flight checks, and releasing the rotor tie-downs. Preston was hunched over his PDA, squinting at the tiny screen.

Dimas had not yet arrived.

Smithers hurried over and came up beside Preston. "Hey," he prompted.

Preston looked up, clearly annoyed by the intrusion. "What, Waylon," he snapped.

Smithers reached into his day bag. "I wondered if you might want this back," he said, offering the tablet up.

Preston narrowed his eyes. "Mister Dimas told you to hang on to it," he grumbled. "I would be remiss in my duties if I disobeyed him. Now, excuse me." Preston moved off several feet, and resumed fiddling with his PDA.

Smithers sighed and slid the tablet back into his pouch.

"Well, good morning," a familiar voice boomed across the tarmac. "It's nice to see your friendly faces on this cloudy Plateau morning," Dimas announced as he swaggered up to his team and slid open the passenger door to the helicopter.

Preston greeted him warmly, happy to launch into a spiel about the day's itinerary. He climbed in behind Dimas. Smithers followed, pulling the door shut behind him. A few minutes later, Antoine climbed into the cockpit, and handed them all headsets through the narrow access between cabin and cockpit.

Smithers adjusted his microphone, and stared out the window.

"You guys all strapped in back there?" Antoine's voice cracked through the earphones.

Dimas leaned over the access, and gave Antoine a thumbs-up.

"Alrighty. Good to go." Antoine flipped a series of switches, bringing the rotors online. He adjusted the throttle to speed, and slowly the chopper rose into the air. "Our flight plan follows the Hudson pretty much exactly," he remarked through their headsets. "It's about fifty miles, so we'll be there in twenty minutes or less. In the meantime, anyone want to listen to the radio or something? I can get you guys the traffic reports, and we can laugh at the people stuck on the highway," he teased.

"No thank you, Antoine, we're fine," Dimas replied diplomatically.

"Eh? Well, suit yourself… sir!"

He deftly angled the craft north, and increased the speed. It didn't take long before Smithers could see the outline of the Empire State Plaza in the distance.

Albany was, at its heart, a river town. The capitol of New York State was only a few blocks west of the river. Antoine took the liberty of explaining the area to Smithers as they approached.

"Waylon, you see all those green blocks to the south?"

Smithers indicated that he could see them.  
"That's the mansion district, so to speak. The governor's mansion is that big house right there, by the park. That's where I flew these two several weeks ago. Parked us in the back yard by the pool. That big tall building up ahead, that's Corning Tower. That's where we'll be landing. That entire elevated terrace is Empire State Plaza."

"What's that round shaped building behind the tower?"

"Oh, that? The call that 'the Egg.' It's a performing arts theatre."

"Where's the Concourse?"

Antoine banked the chopper around and began the final approach. "You're looking at it. Well, the roof, anyhow. It's pretty much directly below those reflecting pools. It connects that big rectangle to the south, the museum with that grey-roofed building to the north: the one with those red peaks. The museum's technically called the New York State Cultural Education Center, or something like that. Everyone around here refers to it simply as the museum."

"And it connects all the towers then too!"

"Exactly!"

Antoine deftly piloted the chopper over the white "H" in the middle of a circle on the roof of the Corning Tower. "I'm going to hop out first and tie her down as soon as we touch," Antoine informed them. "The winds can really whip through here, and I don't want to take any chances hesitating."

As soon as the runners touched ground, Antoine leapt out. He grabbed the nylon webbing straps and clasped them to the heavy-duty rings around the helipad. When the rotors stopped, he slipped the sock-like tie-downs over the blades, and anchored them to the landing runners. "Grab your stuff before I open that door," he barked through their earphones. There's one heck of a side wind today!"

Smithers and Preston hugged their possessions to their chests as Antoine slung the passenger door open. A sharp wind, smelling of city and river, blasted in, threatening to snatch up anything left unattended.

Dimas held his briefcase tightly, and threw his head back, as if laughing at the wind, challenging it. Antoine crouched down and motioned them to the door and stairwell.

"Let's go," he yelled as the wind ripped his words away.

Hunched against the gale, the four men scurried inside, Antoine pulling the door shut behind them. Once inside, Preston stood up and straightened his tie. "Well," he remarked, "that was a bit breezy out there." They turned and made it down a single story to the waiting security team. Dimas and Preston set their belongings on the table, and started fishing possessions out of their pockets. Smithers watched, and followed suit. Antoine stepped aside with one of the agents, presenting his pilot's license, ID, and flight plan authorization.

Smithers held his hands out, legs spread slightly as a guard waved a portable metal detector over his body. "This seems like a lot," he remarked, trying to be friendly.

The guard grunted. "After 9/11, everything changed."

The metal detector chirped.

"Belt?" the guard barked.

"Oh, yes." Smithers undid it and set it on the table.

The guard scanned him again, seemed satisfied, and moved over to the rest of the party. "You're some unusual guests," he remarked as they searched the Plateau crew's bags. "Almost no one gets authorization to use that helipad anymore."

Antoine laughed. "Hey, that's not me." He gestured a thumb towards Preston.

"Preppy handled all that."

Preston tried to look embarrassed, but Smithers saw the faint smirk on his lips.

The guard merely grunted, and handed them back their identification. "Mister Dimas, sir, this way. We'll escort you down the Concourse."

Dimas gave a gracious nod of his head. "I appreciate that." He glanced over his shoulder while Preston, Smithers, and Antoine hastily grabbed their belongings. "Give the governor my thanks, yet again, for allowing me to land here."

The guard led them to the elevators.

"Where's the observation deck," Smithers whispered to Antoine.

"A few floors below us," Antoine replied. "It's not on the very top floor. It's on the forty-second. We're a few floors above."

Smithers nodded his understanding. The seven men, Antoine, Preston, Smithers and Dimas, plus three guards, packed into the elevator, and plunged to the Concourse, the "underground city" far below.

* * *

Several hundred feet away, leaning on the thick marble promenade of the museum. Burns hunched like a gargoyle, bolstering himself against the gusting air.

Burns didn't care that it was summer, there was a chill to the grey wind, he was sure of it. He turned the collar of his black topcoat up, and tried in vain to pat down his windblown silver hair.

Ah, there it was. Over the storm-like roar in his ears came the steady whump-whump-whump of a helicopter. He looked up and watched as it circled the plaza twice before finally settling like a raptor atop the tallest building, dropping out of sight beyond the lip of the roof.

He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around him, hugging his arms to his chest.

Nothing more to be seen standing here, he thought bitterly.

So thinking, he descended the marble steps to the plaza below, and slipped inside.


	16. Chapter 16

Smithers wandered the length and breadth of the Concourse with Preston and Dimas. Antoine had disappeared off somewhere yet again. Just as Dimas had said, NAAECon was just like any other nuclear convention. There were vendors hawking their wares.

Here, a booth with the latest hazmat suits, now in custom colors! There, a gentleman trying to get signatures for a petition to re-use spent fuel rods in second-stage energy production. Of course there was the typical loot: pens, magnets, the occasional flying disk or drink cup with a logo on it.

There were a few agencies looking to hire. Smithers wasn't quite brave enough to hand out his résumé under Dimas' watchful eye, but he grabbed a few business cards, and made note of people to call.

Through it all, Smithers kept an eye out for a familiar hawk-like face; the old man with his piercing blue eyes, and biting words. Despite Smithers' constant vigil, if Burns was there, he wasn't making himself known. Smithers wasn't sure whether he ought feel sad, or relieved. Probably it was a combination of both. He put his hands in his pockets and regarded the marble floor pensively.

All day, he had followed along at Dimas' heel, beside Preston, meeting people, shaking hands, networking. He was glad he'd been able to read through the list of contacts on Preston's tablet. There was no way he would've been able to keep everyone straight.

By the time evening had worn on, he and the rest of the Plateau City crew slipped off to the private changing rooms near the Concourse-level entrance to Corning Tower.

Smithers slipped into his suit, a finely tailored tuxedo jacket and trousers that hugged his rather muscular build in all the right ways. Underneath, he wore a vest over a pleated white dress shirt. A black bow tie, reflective patent leather shoes, and his atom cufflinks completed the ensemble. He paused to check out his reflection, added a bit more gel to his hair, and teased the front up. It wasn't quite a pompadour, but close. Smithers turned one way, then the other, examining his profile. Satisfied, he rinsed his hands, and headed out to the main corridor.

Preston was there, wearing a straight-cut suit, and thin black tie.

Dimas looked more like "the Monopoly guy" than ever. All he needed was a cane an top-hat, and the effect would be complete.

Antoine had somehow resurfaced and changed as well. He wore an off-black suit made of a fine fabric that had an almost shiny quality to it. Despite the blue hair, beard, and eyebrows, he managed to pull off the appearance of sophistication. He fiddled with his cufflinks, then gave a sigh and held his arms out to Preston.

Preston muttered something about Antoine's ineptitude, and the poor choice of fixed back cufflinks as he fastened them for Antoine. Antoine muttered back that he bought them because they looked sharp, and he regretted nothing.

Smithers shook his head, and tried not to smile. He handed his invitation to the attendant, and waited patiently for the next elevator to arrive.

Over the dull murmur of the crowd, a familiar voice cut through the crowd. "Thaddeus! Thaddeus Dimas my old friend, there you are!"

Smithers resisted the urge to cringe. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and looked off at some unknown point in the distance.

It was C. Montgomery Burns.

The lean man was weaving his way through the crowd. Like the rest, he wore black, but his suit had a classic cut to it, reminisce of a Victorian ensemble, complete with top hat and cane. He wore a black topcoat, unbuttoned, and white gloves.

Dimas raised his head. "Ho there! Monty Burns!" The two men clasped hands warmly. "So glad you could make it. I was beginning to wonder if you would come or not."

Burns glanced around casually. "Yes, well, I must confess I had to deliberate long and hard on the matter. As you know Thaddeus, unless there's something it for me, I hardly like to commingle with these hucksters." He gestured back towards the convention hall.

Dimas snorted with amusement. "Oh, come now Monty. Surely there must be something that would interest you. A pen, a little trinket?"

Burns gave a polite chuckle and flipped his hand. "Tad, you jest. I cater my attention to the significant man, not some traveling atom merchant." He leaned closer. "So, did you bring _him?_ "

Dimas feigned innocence with exaggerated theatrics. "Bring who, Monty."

Burns lowered his head. "You know."

"Oh, Smithers! Ah yes, Waylon Smithers! Why yes, as a matter of fact, I daresay he's around here someplace," Dimas remarked coyly, glancing in Smithers' direction.

 _Oh please_ , Smithers groaned inwardly, trying subtly to slip behind Antoine. _Don't point me out to him._

The will of Dimas was not to be that way. Thaddeus Dimas, proudly waved a meaty paw in Smithers direction. "Well look who it is! I daresay he's been there all along!"

Charles Montgomery Burns froze, caught speechless. He stood as if transfixed as the tall man with the tossed grey hair detached himself from the shadows.

"Hello, Monty," Smithers said.

* * *

Burns suddenly felt weak in the knees. He tightened his grip on his cane, and hoped no one noticed. This man was not the Smithers he remembered. Gone was the short, almost crew-cut spikey hair. In its place: a modern haircut that made Smithers' face look more lean and chiseled. Gone too were the round glasses Burns had always been rather fond of.

Smithers' familiar brown eyes regarded him stoically through a pair of rectangular frames.

Had Smithers grown taller too? Was that possible? Or was it simply the way he carried himself. Burns took a quick glance down to Smithers' shoes. Reflective enough you could use them as a mirror, but not any thicker of sole than the man usually wore. No, Burns decided, it was all in his carriage.

Smithers stepped forward, moving around that blue-haired fellow, and walked slowly up to Burns. Burns resisted the urge to take a step back as Smithers approached. Forty years of memories raced through his head. Forty years of seeing Waylon Smithers, but he'd never seen the man like this.

Burns straighten his back and stood as tall as he could.

"Hello, Waylon," he said guardedly. "It's good to see you again."

Smithers gave a curt nod, face expressionless. "I'm glad you could make it," Smithers said neutrally echoing Dimas' words. "Mister Dimas had been hoping you'd show up, as I recall?" Smithers raised his eyes over to Dimas.

Burns followed his gaze.

"Quite right, quite right," Dimas bobbed. "Now, I don't know about you, but I don't feel like staying down here all night." He gestured to the elevator. "Would you care to join our table, Monty? Unless you're with company, of course."

Burns shifted uncomfortably. "Alas, I am without a companion for the evening." He tried not to look at Smithers. "I'd welcome the invitation."

Dimas clapped him solidly on the shoulder. "Well it's settled then," he beamed, shoving Burns forward. "You'll join our and regale us with the latest tales from Springfield.

Burns resisted Dimas' pushing. He stepped aside. "You first, Tad," he said. _No one goads Monty Burns_ , he thought irritably. He stole another glance over his shoulder, and his eyes met Smithers. _Waylon…_ , he thought, a quiet desperation in his mind. It was as if Smithers didn't even recognize him. _He's grown so cold to me_ , Burns thought turning, and resting his back against the rear wall of the elevator. He took off his top hat and held it in his hands, running his fingers over the brim.

Smithers stood in front of him, facing away.

Burns resisted the urge to reach out and grab Smithers' shoulder. He wanted to spin the man around, force him to talk face-to-face. _There'll be time for that later, I'm sure_ , Burns thought as he set his hat back on his head. The night was young. He still had time.

* * *

Waylon Smithers stood, painfully aware of Burns' proximity. It took all his concentration not to turn around. He wanted to grab Burns up by his antiquated lapels and give the man a strong talking to. As they walked out onto the observation deck, Smithers played the various scenarios in his head. _You've got some nerve coming here,_ was one opening line he considered.

Smithers shook his head as if to clear it. There was no rush, no reason he even had to say anything. He, Preston, Antoine, Dimas, and Mister Burns made their way to a table in the north corner, overlooking the plaza.

Antoine sat down, and glanced out the window. "Beautiful view," he remarked thoughtfully.

The rest of the party agreed.

The table was circular; there really was no good way for Smithers to sit away from Burns. He sat with Antoine on his left, Preston on his right. Dimas was next to Preston, almost directly across from him, and Burns sat between Dimas and Antoine.

Burns removed his hat, and set it on the window ledge next to the table.

Smithers took a moment to survey the scene. The observation deck was shaped like a "U", offering views to the North, South, and East. The western wall housed the facilities. At the middle, facing east, a DJ had set up. Along the South windows was a bar.

Smithers was debating whether or not to walk over and get himself a drink when a server arrived. "What will you be drinking?" he asked.

Burns ordered a cognac. Dimas requested a Manhattan. The server gestured to Antoine.

"I have to fly tonight, so nothing for me. But," he pointed to Preston, "that one there'll be drinking for me. He's going to have a Long Island Iced Tea."

"I would like to order my own drink," Preston snapped back.

"Have you ever had a Long Island?"

"No."

"Then you will tonight." Antoine ignored Preston's indignant sputterings. "He'll have the Long Island Iced Tea," he announced decisively.

The server nodded. "And you, sir?" she asked, nodding towards Smithers.

Smithers held up a hand. "Just a tonic water for now," he said. His order surprised him. His mouth had been craving a single malt. _Perhaps it's better this way_ , he thought, looking across the table at Burns. _I don't want to say something we'll both regret_.

Burns looked up from his menu, and inadvertently his eyes met Smithers'. He looked away uncomfortably, then stole a second quick look. No, Smithers was still there, silently watching him. _Dammit Smithers_ , Burns cursed under his breath. _Just say something!_

Smithers gave an almost imperceptible raise of his eyebrows, and glanced to his left, looking out the windows. On a clear day, they said, you could see the outline of the Adirondack Mountains against the northern horizon. Burns wasn't sure about that. It wasn't clear tonight, and the city sky was painted a golden red from the lights below.

Burns made idle conversation with Dimas, and tried not to think about Smithers.

Mentally, he kicked himself. He'd come all this way out here specifically to see Smithers, and now, he found the words wouldn't come. Why was it always so difficult?

He'd come prepared for everything, except being struck dumb. Burns slid his hand into his pocket and felt the two small boxes he'd carried along: a heavier one, containing Smithers' watch, and the lighter one with his ring. Whatever happened, tonight, he would not let Smithers leave without taking both.

Burns let his eyes flick over the blue-haired pilot. "I can't believe Tad lets you get away with that," he remarked, gesturing to Antoine's teal beard.

"None of us can," remarked the lanky Preston, eyes narrowing at Antoine.

Antoine shrugged.

Smithers rested his head in his hand and stared out the window.

Such a beautiful profile, Burns thought sadly. He longed to reach out and cup Smithers' cheek in his palm. He was certain Smithers' skin was as smooth as it looked.

His reverie was interrupted by the server. She placed each drink carefully, then asked if the gentlemen had decided on their menu choices. Like most of these events, there were a few selections for an appetizer, main course, and sides. It wasn't truly a la carte, and the choices were more exotic than standard beef or chicken.

The menu featured "Native to New York" dishes: venison steak, seared brook trout, or roasted duck breast were listed as protein choices. There was a vegetarian option was a vegan lasagna. Burns hardly paid attention to what anyone ordered. He wasn't particularly hungry.

Burns watched Preston take a sip of his Long Island iced tea. "Antoine," Preston remarked, "you were right, this is good."

Preston tapped his head and pointed at Preston. "See, what did I tell you? Sometimes ya just gotta trust me, Preppy."

Preston rolled his eyes, and took another long sip.

Smithers leaned over and whispered a question to Antoine, who shrugged.

Burns ran his fingers on the side of his snifter. _Come on_ , he silently willed Smithers. _Talk to me!_

For all his abilities, psychic communication clearly wasn't one of them. Burns sat in quiet irritation as Smithers chatted alternately with Preston and Antoine, and even Dimas; all the while ignoring him. _I'm glad he's made friends_ , Burns thought wistfully, _but I wish he still considered me such._ He drank his cognac, and tried to look relaxed.

Their meals arrived. They ate. Burns couldn't even remember what he ordered by the time it arrived. Despite the amazing aromas, he could barely manage more than a few mouthfuls.

Smithers was still drinking tonic water. That Preston fellow was on his second Long Island. He finished it, and was about to ask for another when Smithers cut him off. "You've had quite enough, Preston."

"Don't be silly, these things are like water!"

Smithers winced. "Yeah, that's kind of the point."

"Look, just trust us on this," Antoine affirmed.

Burns turned his attention away from the employees, and tried to engage Dimas in conversation about the latest happenings at the Plateau City Plant.

He wasn't paying much attention when the DJ stated something over the announcement system. Burns still wasn't paying much attention when Preston got up and left the table.

Dimas held up a hand, temporarily pausing their conversation. "What the devil is he doing?"

"Oh no," muttered Antoine.

"What!?" barked Dimas.

Burns' head snapped back and forth between the two like he was watching a tennis match. "Karaoke," Antoine replied, clasping a hand over his eyes.

"Well, stop him!" Dimas snapped.

Antoine reached out. "Hey, Preppy, get back here!"

Preston ignored him, and made his way over to the DJ's table.

Dimas tone had gone from warm, to ice cold. Burns knew that tone, and what it meant. "You were the one who was ordering him Long Island iced teas!" He watched Preston talking to the DJ, and looking through a playlist.

Antoine held up a finger. "Hey, I only ordered him _one!_ He didn't have to drink it."

"Tell him to get his Ivy League ass back in his chair or he's fired."

Antoine winced, and hustled over to Preston.

Burns and Dimas watched the two men having an animated conversation. Antoine tried pulling Preston's arm, but Preston shook him free. Looking chagrinned, Antoine returned to the table. "I'm sorry," he said, holding out his hands.

"This is your fault," Dimas growled, pointing a thick finger at Antoine's chest. "Oh well, let him sing. I've gotten tired of his face anyhow."

"It's not my fault, Big D."

Dimas put his hands on the table, knuckles white. "Call me that one more time, Antoine, and you're gone too. You are this close right now," he warned, holding his thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart.

Smithers, who had been watching closely finally spoke up.

"You're going to fire him just for singing karaoke when we were all invited to?"

"I'll not have any of my employees embarrassing me," Dimas replied.

Preston had selected a track, and music began to play through the room.

Smithers drummed his hands on the table and stood up. "I suppose it's a good thing I'm kind of a free agent," he remarked.

He gave Burns and Dimas a nod, then got up from the table.

"At least he's got sense enough to stop him," Dimas remarked.

Burns drew his lips back, grimacing. "Tad, if you knew Waylon like I know Waylon…" he began and let his voice trail off. He couldn't help but give a smug grin. Music was to Smithers as honey was to a bee.

Burns wasn't sure which he was enjoying more: Dimas' obvious discomfort, or Smithers being obstinate and rebellious. _Good for you_ , Smithers, Burns thought feeling an unexpected warmness spread from his chest. _You show old Tad here how a Springfieldian does it._

"Come on, Tad," Burns nudged. "Lighten up. Haven't you ever broken in an impromptu song and dance number?"

Dimas folded his arms across his chest. "Never."

"No? Well it happens in Springfield all the time."

They all watched Smithers grab a microphone and jump on stage in time for the chorus. Crazy modern age minstrels. "You, boy blue," Burns thrust a narrow finger at Antoine, "who is this?"

Antoine tilted his head for a moment, like a dog listening to a high-pitched sound. "I think it's called 'Shame,' by Adam Lambert." Antoine shrugged. "At least Preston chose a duet, right?" he offered hopefully.

Dimas rumbled softly in his chest. "It's none the better."

"At least it's in his register," Antoine pushed, encouragingly. "And look, it's like they choreographed this! I mean, they didn't, but if they had it could hardly be more well done."

Dimas muttered something and shook his head.

Burns steepled his fingers, and focused on the lyrics.

 _I feel thrown out the window_

 _You're too hard on your boy..._

 _Now, I don't mind a little pain when I've really earned it._

 _But you've got me whipped and chained when I don't deserve it…_

Smithers and Preston finished, the piece; amid a surprising amount of applause. Antoine stood up and gave a loud wolf-whistle.

"This-close," hissed Dimas, holding his fingers mere atoms apart.

Antoine looked sufficiently cowed. He ducked his head, and offered a submissive grin. "Heh, sorry, boss. Sir."

 _Is this really how they run things here?_ Burns marveled, watching Dimas put Antoine in his place. _No hounds, no death threats… And it seems to work. Well, it's definitely not for me._ He raised his head and watched Smithers guide a rather giddy Preston back to the table.

Smithers' glanced Burns way, and their eyes met once again.

 _Damn it all_ , Burns muttered.

He pushed himself up and walked around the table to Smithers.

"Waylon," he said, "a moment if I may."

Smithers glanced over at Dimas for permission, an act which Burns found more than a bit offensive.

 _He's mine, not yours_ , Burns thought hostilely, glaring at Dimas. Out of habit, Burns held out his elbow for Smithers to take. He wasn't _that_ weak, but he liked the feeling of Smithers' strong arm guiding him. It only occurred to him afterward that Smithers might not accept.

A half-second later though, he felt Smithers' familiar warm palm on his elbow.

"Let us go for a walk, Smithers. I'll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin at midnight."

Smithers took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"Yes, Mister Burns."


	17. Chapter 17

Waylon Smithers followed Burns lead, offering his arm to help support the older man. He wasn't sure Burns actually needed his aid, but there was a level of familiarity in the act that Smithers didn't feel like resisting.

Burns lead him down to the Plaza, past the reflecting pools, to the marble steps of the museum. The stairway was wide, going up to the promenade he'd stood on early in the day as the chopper landed.

The stairs were uniquely designed. They also functioned as stadium style seating. From there, one could sit and look out over the Plaza to the capitol building at the far end. Burns led Smithers up to the top row of seats, several stories above the street level, and sat down. He motioned Smithers to do likewise.

Sighing heavily, Smithers sat, and folded his hands between his knees.

"So, now that you've got me alone, what do you have to say?" Smithers glanced at his watch. "I don't mean to be impatient, but I can't be gone too long."

Burns shook his head. "It won't take a long time to say." He looked up into Smithers' face. "Do you know why I sent you away?"

Smithers shrugged. "You said I was nothing to you."

Burns held up a hand. "No, Waylon. I never said that. _You_ said that."

"Fine," Smithers shifted his hands to the marble bench, and rocked back and forth.

"No, it's clearly not 'fine' Smithers." Burns sighed and looked up at the lurid sky. "Do you know what I saw tonight?"

"A disobedient employee making a fool out of himself?"

Burns made a face. "I wasn't talking about Preston. I was talking about _you!_ "

Smithers leaned forward, then back. "I know. So was I."

"You see," Burns held up his hands. "There you go again! Always with the self-defeating attitude! You tell me I belittle you, and yes, I'll admit, I have. But you do it to yourself as well." Burns jabbed a bony finger against Smithers' head. "You're the one who lets anything negative that I've ever said live, rent-free, up in there." He tapped Smithers' head again. "I understand it, yes, I've not always been kind to you, nor appreciated everything that you do for me, but it's not that I don't notice."

Smithers said nothing, merely hung his head and regarded Burns from the corner of his eyes.

"I loved you," Smithers whispered softly.

Burns lowered his gaze and stared at his feet. "I know."

Smithers looked away. "You knew… and you still treated me like that?"

Burns threw out his arms. "What would you have me do, Waylon? You're so focused on me all the damn time! You'd lose track of your own life trying to live in mine! It's flattering, sure, but there's more to love than just obsession!" Burns put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, face-to-face with Smithers. "Do you even know why you love me?" he demanded. "What have I ever done to you to make myself worthy in your eyes?"

Smithers could barely meet Burns' gaze.

"I just… I don't know. The way you smile, the way you make me feel safe when I'm with you."

"Safe. _Safe?_ I've set the hounds on you at least a dozen times!"

Smithers nodded. "Yes… but when everyone else was mocking me for being, you know, who I am, you never questioned it. You just let me be... me."

Burns nodded silently, listening.

"When I wanted to do that musical, about Malibu Stacey, you didn't tell me I couldn't. You never said I was too stupid to write, or act. I mean, you made fun of the fact that I was writing about a doll… then you gave me time off to do it."

"Of course I would," Burns replied. "Why wouldn't I? It was important to you."

Smithers pushed himself back. "And see, that's just it, Monty! When it's something truly important to me, _you support it!_ Most people never get that. That's why I love you! Because when the chips are down, and it's a matter of life or death, I know in the end _you'll be there for me!_ " Smithers paused, watching the city lights reflecting in the pools. "… And I wanted to be there for you," he added softly.

Burns drummed his fingers against his lips, thinking.

"That's true, Smithers," he said at long last. "I've never wanted anything but the best for you." He paused, then stood up and began pacing. "And yet I've already failed you in ways I'll never be able to make up for."

Smithers turned to watch Burns. "In what ways?"

Burns pivoted on his heel and walked towards the edge of the seats. "You know your father died," Burns began softly.

Smithers rose and followed him.

"I know."

"He died a hero's death."

"You never told me that."

"It's a story I don't like remembering." Burns walked along one of the benches. Smithers followed on the bench just below. "Do you know the last thing he said to me, before he gave the ultimate sacrifice?"

Smithers shook his head.

"He said 'if this reactor blows, the whole town is doomed… including my son.'" Burns paused. "His last thoughts were about you!" Burns knotted his hands behind his back, and turned back the other way.

Smithers matched pace.

"There's hardly a day that goes by I don't think about that. Every damned day, it seems. Every time I look at you. It should've been me!" He stopped and faced Smithers. "Your father had a wife, a child… he had a family! What did I have? Nothing, except him. I should've stopped him. I tried, but I didn't try hard enough. I let him die, I destroyed your family, and for what?" He pounded his fist into his hand. "My stupid, worthless life."

Burns sat down heavily.

Smithers sat next to him.

"Deep down, I was afraid to die. In my fear, I hesitated. And in that moment of hesitation, a brave man gave his life. The world's been darker ever since."

Smithers reached out hand, and put it on Burns' shoulder. The older man didn't pull away. "You've been carrying that ghost with you all these years," Smithers said softly, wonderingly. "It must've been such a weight on your heart."

Burns nodded.

Smithers could see the traces of tears down the older man's face. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and dabbed Burns' eyes.

Burns gently pushed Smithers' hand away. "No," he whispered, "I don't deserve your kindness." He wiped his eyes with his hand. "I killed your father. I killed the man I loved. Then I watch you grow up and see you start to love me? All the while I know I'm no better than a murderer." Burns shook his head. "How could I not resent your affections? Superficially flattering, yes; but deep down I knew… know… I'll never be worthy of you."

Smithers took a deep breath, and moved his hand to Burns' knee. "Monty, that's not your decision to make."

"It is when I want you to be more like your father, and less like me."

Smithers shrugged. "I'm not my father. And I'm not you either." He patted his chest. "I'm me, right here, right now. Waylon Joseph Smithers, Junior! I can make my own choices, Monty." Smithers regarded Burns carefully. "I get where you're coming from, that you want me to be a leader, but haven't I already shown that?" He paused. "Not everyone wants to be the head honcho. You can't make me what I'm not. No matter what you might want."

They looked across the Plaza to Corning Tower.

"I'm me… and I, for better or worse, fell in love with you. It's that simple. It might not make any sense, but it's the truth."

Burns put his hand over Smithers'. "It's a stupid, senseless world."

"You'd know that better than me. You've lived far longer."

"I don't want to die."

"No one ever does." He gave Burns' hand a squeeze.

Burns squeezed back, then reached into his pocket. "I have something I've wanted to give to you for a long time, but I wasn't sure how. Two 'somethings,' actually." He drew out the heavy box. "This was your father's. I had it made specially for him. Go ahead," he offered the box to Smithers. "Open it."

Gently, Smithers lifted the lid off, and removed several cotton pads, revealing the lion's face on the pocket watch cover.

"He wanted you to have that someday," Burns explained. "Your father was the master of his domain. I never wanted him to forget that; or how I felt about him."

Smithers examined the watch carefully, then flipped the cover open revealing the inscription. _To Waylon Joseph Smithers; For not every man's heart beat is that of the Lion. Forever as Yours; CMB._ There was a date at the end

"That date, that's when your father started working for me." Burns wrung his fingers together. "It was the closest thing to an anniversary we ever had."

Smithers held the watch, hoisted it a few times to get a sense of the weight, then carefully tucked it back in the box and slid the box into his pocket. "You really loved my father, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

Burns nodded. Another tear rolled down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

Smithers pursed his lips.

Burns reached out and put and arm around Smithers' shoulder.

Smithers didn't resist; and Burns drew him closer.

"I loved him in all the ways that one person could ever love another," he confessed. "And that's what tears me apart with you."

Smithers put his head on Burns' shoulder. "Because you don't love me."

Burns shook his head. "No… because I'm afraid I just might."

* * *

Burns straightened up, and reached into his pocket; pulling out the second box. "This is something else I want you to have. You don't have to wear it or anything, but maybe someday, when you feel ready…" He handed the little box over to Smithers.

Smithers opened it slowly.

An elegantly simple white-gold band, thick and recently polished, sat nestled on a pillow.

Smithers clutched a hand over his mouth.

"Is that… is that what I think it is?"

"Yes and no," Burns replied, voice barely above a whisper. "It's whatever you want it to be. But I wouldn't give it to you if I weren't willing to accept _all_ the possible consequences of this act." Burns reached under his collar and pulled out the fine silver chain.

Smithers' eyes widened.

"The match to the set," Burns muttered, holding it up so Smithers could see. "It goes on the right hand… or the left… or a chain around your neck. But please," he wrapped his hands over Smithers' and folded fingers around the ring, "keep it, and remember me. Whatever happens from here, I just want you to know how much you mean to me."

The tears were leaking from Smithers' eyes as well, despite all his efforts to keep himself detached. He relented, and buried his face against Burns' shoulder; and Burns, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around the younger man. _You've done all you can_ , he thought to himself. _Wherever things go from here, Monty, you've said what you came here to say._

Burns pushed Smithers back, holding Smithers by the shoulder and staring into his eyes.

"I know you can't come back to Springfield tonight. And I'd promised to get you back before the night's end, just… think about what I said." He drew Smithers close in another embrace. "Don't ever doubt, for one second that I loved you, _still_ love you, will _always_ love you. Please don't judge my heart on my ability to express it. Such things… they don't come easy to me."

Smithers threw his arms around Burns, pulling him tightly. It was almost hard for Burns to breath, but he didn't mind. He reached up, and kissed Smithers lightly on the forehead.

"We have to get you back to Dimas and company," he said, slowly standing up. "I'll walk you to the tower, but then we'll part ways."

Smithers stood, holding Burns' hands.

He paused, and slipped the white gold band over the ring finger on his right hand. "It fits… perfectly," he murmured.

Burns nodded. "As it should. I'm glad, my dear friend. So glad."

He offered his arm to Smithers, and they walked, slowly back, to the foot of Corning Tower. There, Burns paused, and took Smithers' face in his hands. He wanted to kiss Smithers, wanted to taste those soft lips, breath in Smithers' scent. Instead, he pulled Smithers close and kissed him again on the forehead.

"My sweet, _sweet_ Waylon," he purred, "I'll never stop loving you." He let his hands linger on Smithers' shoulders. "I'll see you back in Springfield, whenever you decide to come home." Burns gave a slight bow. "Goodnight, Smithers." He turned on his heel, cane tapping on the marble tile, and strode off, not looking back.

Smithers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Goodnight, Monty," he whispered into the gentle wind.


	18. Chapter 18

Waylon Smithers sat quietly though the rest of the evening. He listened the amiable drone of conversation, around him. It made a pleasant background noise. Occasionally, the buzz was accented by a louder voice breaking through, laughing at some joke, or barking out with incredulity.

Smithers ran his finger over the ring on his right hand, familiarizing himself with the sensation. He didn't even know what he felt like. His emotions, like the conversation, were a dull hum in the background of his mind. From time to time, a definitive sensation would break the surface, demanding his attention, before slipping under again.

There were so many questions he had unanswered… about everything.

Dinner was over, desert had been cleared. The various groups had dissolved and started to mingle. Some weasel-eyed bald man had joined their table, sitting down beside Dimas. Smithers sipped his tonic water and half-listened to Dimas and "weasel-man" arguing over the what was considered a fair mark-up price to the consumer.

Preston wasn't looking so hot. He had a slightly ashen hue to cheeks, kept his head focused on the table and occasionally took small sips of water. Antoine was nowhere to be seen. _How can a man with hair like that disappear in a crowd_ , Smithers wondered. He slipped the ring off and rolled it between his thumb and forefingers.

Huh, there was an inscription on the inside. Burns hadn't said anything about that. He lifted it up and peered at it, curious. _Forever as Yours; CMB_. There was a date, the same one that had been inscribed on his watch. Underneath that, was a second date. Smithers squinted and held the ring to the light.

That date… it was today!

Smithers suddenly felt light-headed. He put his hands on the table to steady himself. Dimas, and "weasel-man" looked up, momentarily distracted.

"Are you okay, my good man?" asked the weasel.

"Absolutely, sir," Smithers replied, glibly. "I had simply lost track of the time. This evening has been flying by, hasn't it."

The weasel pulled a silver pocket watch out of his jacket pocket. "Well so it has, young man," he remarked, raising a pencil-thin eyebrow. "Thaddeus, were you aware it's already into tomorrow?"

Dimas checked his watch. "I had no idea," he remarked honestly. He gave that familiar (and grating) laugh, and clasped the thin man's hand. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue this lively debate some other time. I should probably be getting on home to the missus. Don't want her worrying these rascals have kidnapped me, right boys?"

Preston gave a weak thumbs-up gesture.

Smithers nodded obsequiously. "That's right, _sir_ ," he said with as much of a fawning expression as he could muster. It seemed so unnatural now, but someone had to fill the role of lackey; and he supposed it wouldn't hurt to play the part for a little while.

Dimas gestured to Smithers. "See that one there? He gets it." Dimas grinned broadly.

Weasel rubbed his chin. "Looks familiar.

"Monty Burns' associate. He's been doing some cross training with me; haven't you Waylon."

"Yes sir."

The Weasel nodded approvingly. "Well, keep up with it lad. Old Thaddeus here could teach an Arab how to sell ice to Eskimos!" He gave Dimas an approving slap on the back.

("That's racist!" admonished Preston. Smithers shushed him.)

"Well, I'd best let you all be off then. And you boy, Waylon, tell old Monty I said 'hi.'"

Smithers nodded chipperly. "Will do, sir!"

"Good man," approved the Weasel as he wandered off into the crowd. Good man.

Dimas pulled out his cell phone and called Antoine, giving him orders to start prepping the helicopter for flight.

While Dimas was preoccupied, Smithers took a moment to check in with Preston. "How are you feeling," he asked, concerned. Two Long Islands, that was something like ten shots of liquor. He wasn't sure Preston's tolerance. Alcohol poisoning seemed a reasonable concern in Smithers' mind.

Preston appeared to be alternating between feeling great, and feeling terribly ill. He gave Smithers a blurry look, and his words were rather slurred, but he seemed alert enough. "This _has_ been quite the evening of discoveries, hasn't it," he remarked thickly.

Smithers put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Just drink that, slowly," Smithers said, sliding the water closer to Preston.

"I'm fine." Preston's eyes focused on Smithers, then drifted out, then focused again. "No, really, I'm fine," he insisted.

Smithers gave the water glass a tap with his fingernail.

Preston's gave him a sideways look, but took another sip.

Dimas snapped his phone shut and slid it back in his pocket. "Antoine will have Lima Delta ready in fifteen minutes. I suggest we start making our way up there." He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. "Smithers, Preston," he made a sweeping gesture, indicating the men to follow.

Smithers slipped the ring back on his finger, and offered Preston a hand up.

The lanky man accepted it gratefully.

Slowly, pausing to bid good evening to the other atom barons, Dimas and his entourage made their way to the roof.

Antoine already had the engines running.

He noticed Smithers struggling to support Preston, and ran over, sliding under Preston's right arm and helping the man to walk straight in the heavy wind. Preston pulled Smithers and Antoine close in a tight hug. "You guys are my best friends," he crooned.

Antoine leaned away from Preston's liquored breath, but didn't let go.

"Right now, Preppy, we're your _only_ friends. And if you throw up in the _Little Diva_ , you'll be down to just Waylon over there."

"I'm not gonna throw up," Preston said adamantly. "I'm fine. Just a little dizzy."

"Yeah?" Antoine asked as he and Smithers helped Preston climb into the passenger compartment. "Well nearly six hundred feet in the air is a poor time to feel loopy, Prep. Now get in there, and strap yourself down."

Preston snickered.

Antoine glanced at Smithers and shook his head. "Me and my poor word choices, eh Waylon?"

Smithers gave him a pat on the shoulder as he climbed in. "It can't be helped now."

Antoine shrugged, slid the passenger door shut behind Smithers, and climbed into the cockpit.

Preston leaned his head against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, he was snoring softly.

Dimas regarded him with a carefully guarded expression.

"I don't know if he'll pan out," Dimas remarked to Smithers.

Smithers fidgeted with the ring on his finger, unsure of what to say. Preston didn't deserve to get fired, not in his mind anyhow. He glanced up, and caught Dimas watching him. Dimas' eyes were focused on Smithers' hands.

"Unless I miss my guess, I didn't see that before," he remarked with false innocence, nodding his head towards Smithers' ring.

Smithers self-consciously curled his hands together. "It's not new," he replied. That was the truth.

Dimas gave that shark-like grin that Smithers found more than a little unnerving. "Oh? A gift from someone?"

Smithers untucked his hands, and looked at the ring. "It was my father's," he replied, not meeting Dimas' eyes.

Thaddeus Dimas rubbed a hand along his jawline. "Ah, I see. I never met the man personally, but I knew he was the architect of the Springfield plant before he ran off." Dimas shrugged, but his eyes were shrewd. He was either testing Smithers' nature, or trying to provoke him. Smithers wasn't interested in falling for the bait.

"So I've heard." Smithers examined his hand thoughtfully. "Someday I'm hoping Mister Burns will allow me to see the records."

"Going to design your own, eh?" Dimas probed.

Smithers almost laughed out loud. Dimas' attempts at digging for information were about as subtle as a dropped piano. Smithers smiled harmlessly. "Oh no. Nostalgia, really. Nothing more. I've learned ever so much from you. I just want to see how much things have changed between then and now. Your plant's much more modern than Mister Burns' plant back in Springfield, sir. It's an inspiration, really."

Dimas chuckled and interlaced his sausage-like fingers. "Ah, Smithers," he began softly, "don't think I don't know what you're playing at."

Smithers held up his hands. "What am I playing at, Mister Dimas?"

"You're Burns' little stooge. You've always been so, and that's all you'll be to him. You could do so much better than languishing in the shadow of that decrepit old man and his crumbling empire." Dimas gestured over to the sleeping Preston. "Everyone hits their stride. He passed his several hours ago. What do you say, hmmm? Want to make something of yourself? Be a true power in the atomic world?"

Smithers gave Dimas a lazy smile. "Ah, Mister Dimas, sir. Power for power's sake doesn't interest me. I do appreciate the offer though. At present, I must decline, but perhaps someday I may have a different answer."

Dimas interlaced his hands behind his head.

"So you'll head back ramshackle disaster-waiting-to-happen, and make yourself a doormat just so Burns can wipe his shoes on your back?"

Smithers smirked and shook his head. "No, I don't think I shall. I'm going back to Springfield, no doubt. I'm going back to where I was, but I'll never be _who_ I was."

Dimas shrugged. "You say that now. But familiar places lead to familiar routines. Regardless, that's your choice, Waylon, and you're welcome to make it. Just remember, I offered you a chance to say on with me. So much is the pity, but at least you know what you want. There's no shame in that. Burns, me, we are both at our cores cold-hearted businessmen. And that's fine. But you? I'm don't feel you're cut from the same cloth. Maybe you'd make it in this world, maybe you won't, but that's your path to follow, not mine."

Dimas gave Smithers an oddly agreeable smile.

Smithers returned the gesture. "Thank you, sir."

Dimas extended his heavy paw. "The pleasure's been all mine, Waylon." He enfolded Smithers' right hand in his. "Just remember, you'll always have friends back here at Plateau City."

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Dimas watched Smithers and Antoine help an inebriated Preston across the tarmac. He wrinkled his brow and made a face before shaking his head and turning away. It wasn't his problem to deal with right now. He let himself into his private office at the plant, and grabbed his phone.

Dimas punched in the number he knew by heart, and waited for the familiar voice to pick up.

"Ahoy hoy?" Burns asked.

"Monty, it's Thaddeus." Dimas could hear the dull noise in the background. It sounded like Burns was already on his company jet back to Springfield.

"Well," snapped Burns, "what do you want at this hour?"

"I just wanted to say, you've got a real loyal one there, with your Smithers fellow. I tried to bribe him to stay, just like we discussed, but he's pretty insistent on going back to Springfield. I thought you might like to know."

Burns gave a cough of acknowledgement. "I see. I appreciate you keeping me informed."

Dimas snorted. "I thought you'd be glad to hear it. Now, about business. I was wondering when I could send a shipment out to you?"

"I can't talk here," replied Burns irritably. "This line isn't secure. We can discus that later, during normal 'business' hours."

"Absolutely," Dimas deferred. "A pleasure working with you Monty."

Burns gave a slightly wicked chuckle. "Oh Thaddeus, the pleasure is all _mine_." With that, he disconnected, and the line went dead.

* * *

Preston Tucci woke up feeling sick and disorientated. He sat up, felt the room spin, and laid back down. He was at the Plateau City Nuclear Plant, in the employee bunk room. That much he knew.

The bunk room was part and parcel of the facility, having been built to accommodate employees who had to work double shifts, or odd hours. It was a simple room, consisting of six twin beds, a row of lockers, and a small, attached washroom. There were a pair of office chairs by a narrow window. Preston rubbed his face. His glasses were missing. He felt around on the nightstand next to him. His hand bumped a glass of water.

Groaning, he forced himself to sit up. He put on his glasses and looked at the water. Next to it were two aspirins and a note. _Preston_ , the note began, _I hope you're feeling better. Antoine said he'd watch you, but he needed to take mandatory down time. Mister Dimas is going to Florida this afternoon. So I kept an eye on you till this morning when you woke up a little and said you were feeling better. If you need anything, here's my cell number_. There was a number, and it was signed "Waylon S."

Preston took the aspirin and washed them down with a sip from the room-temperature water. It was unexpected, this random kindness. He hadn't done anything to exactly put himself in good graces with Smithers, he reflected. If anything, he'd resented Smithers' intrusion into his world. Would he have done the same if Smithers had over-indulged so badly? Probably not, he had to admit.

 _I'm sure he knew that_ , Preston thought as he swung his feet to the floor. _But he took care of me anyway_.

Head, and _mind_ swimming, Preston made his way to the washroom to take a shower and get cleaned up.

* * *

Antoine Radson slept comfortably, sprawled out on his king-sized bed in his house at the western edge of Plateau City. It was the sleep of the utterly exhausted. He'd come in late last night, after showing Smithers to the bunk room at the plant. He'd changed, pulled the heavy curtains to his room shut, and set his alarm for one PM. He'd sleep till afternoon, a good eight hours at least, before getting up and priming the Little Diva for Dimas's flight.

 _The man travels far too much_ , Antoine thought as he pulled a pillow over his head to block out the road noise. He fell asleep almost immediately thereafter.

* * *

On the other side of the country, Charles Montgomery Burns drank another cup of black coffee, and watched as the movers brought the last of Smithers' possessions into the receiving docks of Burns Manor.

Burns was having everything brought and loaded into the basement under the south wing. He didn't feel right having Smithers' possessions unpacked yet. Let Smithers see to that whenever, if ever, he came back.

Hercules, recently free of his cast, stood at Burns' foot, little stub of a tail quivering excitedly.

"You recognize this stuff, do you, beastie?" Burns asked, glancing down at the small dog.

The terrier looked from Burns to the boxes, and sniffed the air. After all this time, the familiar scent of his long-absent master excited him.

Burns watched the movers, working like ants, until the process was complete. Even now, Monty Burns was capable of staving off sleep. When he'd been a young man, he would stay awake for days it seemed, rarely sleeping. _Tesla has nothing on me_ , he remembered, thinking about one of his late night botanical projects years ago.

But that was then, and this was now. Burns yawned and stretched. He'd go upstairs, make sure that Waylon's room was cleaned and ready, and perhaps catch a short cat-nap while he decided what to do with the rest of his weekend.

Hercules pawed at his leg. Burns looked down and chuckled. "No, sorry beastie. You've got to walk on your own four legs now. You can't honestly think I would carry you forever."

The terrier tilted his head, stared at Burns inscrutably with his shoe-button black eyes, then relented and trotted off after this acceptable substitute for his old master.

* * *

Back in Plateau City, Waylon Smithers woke from a deep and restful sleep. He got up, and went through his morning routine of work out, shower, then breakfast.

He sat down at the table with a bowl of cereal, pocket watch and ring in the center of the table. He was still getting used the idea of the ring. He wanted to wear it, but Smithers wasn't sure he was emotionally ready for that yet. He knew he felt something, but he still wasn't sure even what. The thing his advice books never seemed to address, when it came to matters of the heart, was how difficult it could be to even identify an emotion.

They must've been written by women, he thought with a hint of amusement; or at the very least by people who already understood what they felt. Trying to sort out his feelings was like trying to identify that moment when green became blue. It seemed simple, but on closer inspection there were infinite shades of aqua and teal, and everything in between.

Teal… green… that thought at least sparked a clear idea in Smithers' head. The letter, with its emerald ink and wax seal!

Smithers didn't hesitate. He got up and removed the letter from the bottom of his travel bag where he'd stuffed it unceremoniously the week before. It was none the worse for wear; a bit bent, and the green wax seal had cracked, but otherwise, it was undamaged.

He sat back down at the table, pulled out his pocket knife, and split the seal the rest of the way. Hands trembling ever so slightly, he pulled out the folded linen paper. Carefully, he unfolded it, and began to read.


	19. Chapter 19

_My Dearest Smithers_ , the letter began, _I hope this doesn't come too late._

 _My boy, who ever would've guessed that you'd leave such a hole in your absence. In all my years, I never once questioned what I had. I believed I knew._

 _No. Instead, you've made question who I am; and ask what have I become? I never realized, the moment you walked out that door, how much you meant to me. You were the sky upon which I hung my stars. Now my nights are ice and dark. It is perhaps no less than I have earned; what I deserve._

 _I took for granted your presence at my side. You looked good on me. You were my style. I didn't realize that until after, at my own self-absorbed whim, you had departed._

 _There's so much I've never told you; about my past, about our future. Us. I always hoped deep down you knew. You left imprints on my heart that can't be rubbed away with time. Even stone can be scarred._

 _If fate has sentenced me to never look upon you more; I must accept this._

 _You have always been, my boy, evermore than I deserved. If only I could have a moment again with you, a day, or even an hour, I'd tell you all the things my heart now longs to say._

 _Waylon, please don't let this be the end of us. I am not a kind man, I am not patient, nor long tolerant. I have mistreated you grievously in the past. I can't deny that. But I hoped, somehow, you could see past all that, perceive that there was so much more behind my actions when I ignored you, or spurned your kindness with my own mephitic rancor._

 _Permit me to beg you, if I may: come back to me, Waylon Smithers. Come home._

 _Burns Manor has stood empty too long. A mausoleum for the remains of my heart. I never realized how much your voice filled these abandoned halls, devoid spirit and life. Your light banished the darkness that haunts me now. My sanctuary has now become the perfect metaphor I am loathed to endure._

 _Bring light to these halls once again, Waylon._

 _Sit beside me in the long nights. Warm my heart by bringing nothing more than yours. I offer my hand, open, and unarmed, in supplication. When you have found all you need to out there, come back to me. Never again will I send you away._

 _I shall not hold you captive, nor force your will, but I beg you please don't give up this lonely, and very foolish old man._

 _Yours… always,_

 _Monty._

Smithers finished reading. His bowl of cereal sat forgotten off to the side. Yours… always. Now that couldn't be a coincidence. Burns asked him to come back, and not just to Springfield, or his old job, but back to Burns himself.

Smithers' heart flipped and trembled within his chest. Did that mean what he hoped it did? Was Burns truly offering him a home at the Manor? He knew he would not be able to concentrate until he knew for certain. Smithers pulled out his phone, and called Burns' private line.

 _Please pick up_ , he willed. _Please_.

The phone rang more times before Burns answered. The man's voice sounded tired. Given the flight he made yesterday, it was understandable. Smithers knew Burns liked to imagine himself an unwearying force of nature. Smithers also knew even the most tenacious overlords in history still needed sleep. Burns was no different.

"Mister Burns… Monty," he began without preamble, "I read your letter."

Burns exhaled slowly. "And?" he asked warily.

"Is it true? Is all of it what you really feel?"

"Smithers… Waylon…" Burns sighed. "Do you even need to ask that after last night?"

Smithers relented. "No, I don't. It's just… it's been a lot to deal with in the past few weeks, Monty. I've got a lot to sort out in my head."

Burns made a sound of acknowledgement. "So," he began slowly, "when are you scheduled to be released from Dimas' care?"

"I talked with him on the ride back from Albany. I suppose I'm pretty much good to leave whenever I want."

"You could leave tonight."

"I could… but there are people here I want to say goodbye to. I can't just up and leave."

"Fair enough, Waylon." Burns coughed awkwardly. "I trust you'll contact me before you decide to leave, so I can send the jet for you?"

"I won't have to manage my own flight back?"

"No. I'll see to everything."

"Thank you, Monty."

"No… it is I who should be thanking you."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Still so much left unsaid. "Well," Smithers began, "I'll, eh, I'll keep in touch."

"These empty hours without you are an anathema to my very soul. I meant what I said."

"About what?"

"That I love you. I hope you know that."

Smithers smiled, though Burns couldn't see it. "I believe that, Monty. I truly do." They said their goodbyes, and disconnected. Smithers mulled over his options. He picked up his phone and called Dimas on his private cell.

The man answered. "Sir," Smithers began, "I'm sorry to bother you on your day off, but I was wondering what my timeline might be to return to Springfield."

Dimas chuckled. "You're not my employee. You can leave whenever you want. Clear out your desk, and turn in your ID, and you're done. And if you ever need a recommendation, I'd be happy to oblige."

"Thank you, sir," Smithers replied graciously.

Smithers knew one of the good things about certain industries is that they run twenty-four hours a day, around the clock. He made his way over to the nuclear plant to start packing what few personal items he had in his desk. The entire contents fit neatly into a single box. He wouldn't be able to turn in his identification until Monday, but that gave him Sunday to say goodbye to the people he met. He wanted, especially, to have one last chat with Leon before he left. He'd miss that man. Ellis too. And of course his coworkers from the plant. Smithers was not one for long farewells, or going-away parties, but he at least felt a few cards would be in order; thank you notes for training him, that sort of thing.

After his conversation with Dimas, he'd called Burns back, and suggested Tuesday morning as a time to depart for Springfield. Burns agreed, and said he'd have the jet at LaGuardia by ten AM. When it came to travel, Burns was very particular about long-range aircraft. It would be nice, Smithers thought, to make the flight from Plateau to Springfield non-stop, and in the comfort of the familiar cabin.

Sunday he continued to pack. He bought the cards, filled them out, and put them in his day-bag to bring in on Monday. He made his way down to J. Vernie's, and was disappointed to find Leon off that day. Smithers wrote a brief message on the back of one of his business cards, and left it with the other bartender. He even stopped at The Lucky Lady on his way back. Leon was not there either. Smithers wrote the same message, _Leon, thank you for everything. If you're ever out my way, look me up_ , and gave her a card as well.

Feeling bittersweet, he made his way back to his apartment, and finished packing. He didn't have much. Everything fit neatly into his suitcases. It was all about traveling light, once again.

* * *

Smithers hadn't been expecting much of a send-off, but from the Plateau City crew. He'd expected to hand out the cards in the morning, and then leave early. It was Ruby, from accounting, who flagged him down on his way to the Human Resources office. "Waylon," she said, waving a hand, "wait a minute!"

Smithers paused. "What's up," he asked, curious.

Ruby put a hand on his shoulder. "Before you go, you should stop down at the cafeteria."

"Oh, I'm really not hungry," he confessed.

"Please," Ruby encouraged. "You can't leave on an empty stomach."

Smithers looked at the ID badge in his hand. "Oh, what the heck," he shrugged. One more free sandwich couldn't hurt. He followed her down the familiar corridors to the cafeteria. As he approached, it sounded like it was more usual; especially considering the time of day. Ruby sneezed.

"Bless you," Smithers replied.

The room suddenly grew quiet. "Shhh, shhh, shhh… it's him," someone whispered.

A few steps to the door, Ruby paused. "I have to tie my shoe," she explained. "You go ahead."

Smithers deftly stepped around her, and into the large room.

 _"_ _SURPRISE!"_ the large cluster of familiar faces cheered out. Sharon and Gary held up a cake with a picture of New York State, and a dotted line connecting to North Tacoma. _Goodbye, Waylon! We'll Miss You!_ the frosting letters announced. Smithers blushed. "Aww, jeeze," he muttered, shyly.

Ruby put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward. "You didn't honestly think you were getting out of here without saying goodbye, did you?" she asked, grinning.

Smithers took off his glasses and rubbed his burning cheeks. "Well, actually I had."

"Hah, not a chance," laughed Antoine, sitting on one of the tables, swinging his legs lively back and forth.

Ruby pushed Smithers gently down into a seat and Sharon cut him a slice of cake.

"How'd you even know I was leaving?" Smithers asked, in polite confusion.

"Well, the cards were kinda a giveaway," he admitted. "Speaking of which, where's mine?"

Smithers reached into his pouch and pulled out a card for Antoine. "I was going to leave this in your mailbox. You don't have an office."

Antoine grinned. "My office can fly." He started tearing open the envelope. "Oh, and about the party, a little birdy let the word slip the other day that you'd be leaving, so… yeah. That too." He returned his attention to the card.

Smithers tilted his head, puzzled. "'Little birdy?'"

Preston detached himself from the crowd, and gave a modest wave. "Hi, Waylon."

Smithers' eyes widened in surprise. "You?"

Preston looked at his feet shyly. "Yes, well… It appears someone might've sent Mister Dimas a very persuasive email after we got back from NAAECon, stating how one single act shouldn't make or break _anyone's_ career… and he had a change of heart." He looked up bashfully. "I wonder who that was."

Smithers tried to suppress a grin. "I have no idea." He gestured to an empty chair nearby.

Preston took it.

Any hope of productivity was halted for the next few hours, and no one minded at all. They sat, laughing and swapping stories until eventually the cake had been eaten; and the daily requirements of their respective jobs once again demanded attention. Smithers said his goodbyes, amid handshakes and a few friendly hugs, then turned in his ID badge, and left through the gates of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station for the last time.

Smithers got off the train at LaGuardia airport, and made his way through security to the executive gate. He recognized the familiar atom emblem on the tail-fin of Burns' company jet. It was the same copper color as the cufflinks Burns had always complemented him on. Smithers smiled, and adjusted his bowtie. It felt good to be going home.

The pilot escorted him across the tarmac, and up into the plane. His luggage had already been stored beneath. Smithers was so intent on getting settled at the table he didn't notice a familiar figure detach himself from the shadows at the aft end of the compartment.

"Hello, Waylon."

Smithers jumped, nearly colliding with the curved bulkhead. "Mister Burns," he gasped out of reflex.

Burns shrugged his way down the aisle. "'Monty'," he corrected, sliding into a seat at the table across from Smithers. He reached out and took Smithers' strong hand in his narrow one. Smithers noted how cold Burns' hand felt.

"You're freezing," he remarked, and covered both Burns' hands with his.

"All my blood seems to have flooded my heart, as it were," Burns remarked. He glanced at Smithers' hands. "I see you're still wearing that ring. I'm glad. It fits you." He paused, glancing out the window as the plane taxied around and prepared to take off. The engines cycled up.

The plane rumbled and angled back as it detached itself from the ground. Smithers, his back towards the cockpit, was pushed against his seatbelt closer towards Burns as the jet climbed steeply.

Burns tightened his grip on Smithers' hands. Against the force of acceleration, he craned his body forward, reached up, and caressed Smithers' cheek. It took a herculean amount of effort on his part. Burns ran his thumbs over the back of Smithers' fingers. "Someday, I'll get you one all your own," he murmured.

With that, he released Smithers' hands, and leaned back in his seat. Smithers looked into Burns' eyes, clear and blue; and at peace.

Smithers leaned back as the plane leveled out, and unfastened his seatbelt. He rose and walked over to Burns, offering a hand.

Burns unfastened his, and took Smithers hand. They made their way back to the couch near the aft end of the compartment. Smithers sat down, pulling Burns with him. "We can take our time, Monty," he said softly, thoughtfully. "We've both been through a lot these past few weeks."

Burns nodded. "That doesn't change the fact that I expect you to call the manor your home from now on. I've taken the liberty of setting up a room for you. It will be your space, to arrange and decorate as you see fit. Anything you want, it will be done." Burns smiled softly. "But perhaps some nights, you might sleep in a different room."

Smithers' heart skipped a beat.

"I'm not implying or suggesting anything, my dear friend. But after this, I have no desire to have you too far from my side ever again. Why would I want you any further from me than necessary?" He shook his head, and put his hand on Smithers' knee. "No, Waylon. I've more than enough space in my own big, empty room. If some nights you might find yourself feeling the same, I'd gladly welcome your company at night."

He put his head against Smithers shoulders. "Perhaps, now that you're here, my night sky will once again be resplendent in stars."

Smithers put his arms around Burns, and drew him closer. "I always had stars in my eyes when I looked at you, Monty."

Burns slid his hand to Smithers' flank, then around Smithers waist. "I can't promise I might not hurt you…"

"I can't promise I won't get mad…"

"… But I can promise you, for as long as I live, there is no one I want in my life more than I've ever wanted you right this minute."

"Monty, I…"

Burns gave Smithers a squeeze, smirked flirtatiously. "Oh, hush up, Waylon." Burns leaned in, and grazes his mouth along Smithers neck, nibbling gently.

"For this? With pleasure, sir." Smithers giggled, and turned his face to Burns'.

Their lips met, and they kissed once, lightly.

For a moment, it was enough...

...But it was only enough for a moment.

The End...?


	20. Author's Notes

_**Author's Notes:**_

There! I did it! I got this piece finally banged out before the fated "Burns Cage" episode airs. Now I can watch that, and either laugh (or cry) as the mood fits. This story is about half the length I originally had. I'm sure you've gathered that by now. There were several scenes that cut throughout the tale. I'll be including at least a few of them.

For those of you who have read "Nuclear Attraction," many of the authors' notes from there apply here as well. For those of you who haven't read that piece, please take a quick jot over, read the "author's notes" and hop back.

The "Deleted Scenes" chapters are as-is, meaning they might or might not fit with the direct continuity. The problem with having Nuclear Attraction, Unfolding, and any related stories all together was it ruined the cohesive narrative. It was a great idea, but like Communism, failed horribly in execution. There were too many side avenues. The route got lost.

With that in mind, I don't expect much love for these supplemental chapters, but that's okay. There's a reason things get cut. I regret nothing!

Several people have contacted me through various sites, asking if I plan to write a sequel. The official answer is: "no, not anytime soon, at least." There is plenty of material for one in the handful of deleted scenes I didn't post. I'm sure people are left wondering why I didn't have Leon around when Smithers went to say goodbye. That's because, well, I'm not sure if I'm done with Leon yet. The idea of an official goodbye seemed premature.

There's also that small matter of the favor that Thaddeus Dimas owed Burns. Yes, I do know what it is; and if I ever do write further, it will probably be addressed. I'm not sure we should say goodbye to the Plateau City crew just yet. Preston and Antoine? There's a good chance they'll resurface as well.

A few people have asked me about Plateau City itself. Well, I built it back in 2001 as part of a setting for an old table-top role playing game I was DMing/storytelling. I like building stories. It's what I do. Anyhow, it was a "World of Darkness" setting; with all manner of supernatural creatures. I needed a city, so I built one. Ever since then, when I need a fictional place setting I know like the back of my hand, I often go back to Plateau City. Monument Park was part of the city from it's very first creation, it's the heart of Plateau City. Consider Plateau City and Monument Park to be the Nexus of my literary multiverse, if you will. Most stories won't even mention it, but in all my worlds, it exists.

I've gotten a handful of requests for a "Pantoine" pairing. *laughs* I like those two, but I never guessed they'd become so popular! And, honestly, a "Pantoine" ship did cross my mind, but I didn't keep references to it because it distracted from the main arc of Smithers and Burns.

Either way, as I see it, Preston Tucci and Antoine Radison may be my OCs, but by uploading them to the internet, they now belong to the world. If anyone wants to ship them, please feel free. Just give me credit for their creation... oh, and send me a link because I'd be very curious to know what other people see happening next.

Fan fiction is an ever-evolving medium. I don't see that I can claim exclusive ownership over my OCs, while writing stories about someone else's OCs, like Monty Burns and Waylon Smithers ((c) Matt Groening). - Yeah, saying "I can use your toys, but no one can use mine" seems hypocrisy to me. Art observes, borrows, learns... evolves! It lives from inspiration! If something I wrote inspires someone else's work, hey that's freakin' awesome!

I mean, everything I've ever created has been inspired by something somewhere: whether a natural feature that captured my eye, or a human-created experience (architectural, visual, or written) that has affected me.

The greatest compliment anyone can ever get from a creation is learning it has evoked thought and feeling in another.

Thankyou all who have read "The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers," faved it, followed it, made comments and fan art. Thankyou for sharing your responses to my work with me! YOU are the reason I publish these! You are the people who inspire me to keep honing my craft. I owe each and every one of you a debt of gratitude, from the bottom of my very real and beating heart.

I'm glad to be part of your experience.

~ Muse


	21. Deleted Scene 1: Alex brings the will

**Author's Notes**

 _This scene takes place after the death of Waylon Smithers Sr., and after the flashback events in "Winter of My Heart."_

 _In this scene, Alex Orfield, Waylon Jr.'s uncle, and executor of Waylon Sr.'s will goes to visit C. M. Burns. When Waylon Jr. was a small boy, he lived with his aunt Charlotte and uncle Alex for a few years until he moved back in with his mother, Roberta. This scene gives Alex a bit of screen time, and introduces the reader to more of Smithers' family._

 _It was eventually cut because, let's face it, who wants to read a ton of flashbacks?_

 _~ Muse_

* * *

 **THEN**

It was summer, barely, but already unseasonably hot. Burns sat on the covered veranda at his manor, slowly sipping an iced tea, and watching the bees lazily drone from flower to flower. His houseman, Johan, a lean man of decidedly Germanic features, stood at his shoulder, fanning him gently with a large palm-fan.

Burns wore loose shorts and a cotton button-up shirt.

Johan was dressed, as always, in his full black suit. If he were uncomfortably warm, he didn't show it.

Burns found Sundays to be a frustrating day. It was a day when the great wheels of industry were forced to a halt by some archaic notion of rest, faith, and family. Burns tried to relax and enjoy the halcyon gardenscape around him. He swirled his glass, listening to the ice cubes clink, and took another sip of tea.

Johan paused in his fanning.

Burns looked up, and saw the man's gaze had locked onto one of the house servants standing at the back door. Burns had given his staff very explicit instructions: he didn't want to see them, or hear them. Johan was the only one he wished any contact with unless it was utterly unavoidable.

The house servant wrung a dishrag in his hands nervously. Burns gave a nod to Johan. Johan snapped his fingers, and made a come here gesture with his hand.

The servant scurried over, and whispered something to Johan.

Burns didn't catch what was said.

Johan gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement. "Herr Burns," he said quietly, resuming his fanning, "there is a gentleman at the front gate, an Alex Orfield. He requests an audience with you."

Alex Orfield. Burns knew that name. It had been years since he'd heard it spoken. He nodded slowly. "I'll entertain his visit."

Johan gave the servant a nod. "Lose the rag, and bring him in."

The young man scurried off.

Minutes passed slowly.

Burns mused over the name. Alexander Orfield. He and his wife Charlotte had been raising Smithers' son with their own children while the boy's mother was 'recovering' from the so-called nervous condition she'd had shortly after the boy's birth. Burns had never spoken to Alex; knew the man only through reputation. He'd met Alex's wife Charlotte once about ten years ago. She seemed… civil.

The young servant returned, escorting the aforementioned Alex.

Burns turned his chair to face Alex, but didn't stand.

"Mister Orfield," he began in measured tones. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

Alex extended a hand. "Mister Burns."

They shook hands.

"Alas, no pleasure, but business," Alex said seriously. "I've been appointed the executor for the estate of your former business partner, Waylon Smithers. As you know, he went missing on March fifteenth those long years ago."

Burns, poker-faced, nodded. He gestured to an empty chair.

Alex sat down and started ruffling through some papers he brought. "As executor, I wanted to make you aware of what's going on. Before he left, it appears he made a will. Of course we were unable to execute it until such time passed that Wally, eh _Waylon_ , is to be considered legally dead." He paused.

Burns said nothing, but made a _please, go on_ , gesture with his hand.

"The long and short of the matter is, Mister Burns, Waylon appointed you as his son's godfather. Everything's all here in the will." He patted the envelope.

Burns raised his eyebrows.

"Naturally, I was as surprised as everyone else," Alex continued, "but it's clear Waylon was quite emphatic about this. He'd even filed the necessary paperwork with the probates court." Alex interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. "Given the unknown nature of Waylon's fate, everything had to be examined in great detail for evidence of foul play or coercion." Alex fell silent, waiting.

Burns met Alex's unblinking gaze levelly. He found himself liking this man, for some odd reason. Perhaps it was the purely businesslike way the man carried himself. Burns stroked his chin. "Let me guess, Mister Orfield, given the things you've heard about me around our humble town, you wanted to be sure that I had not in some way orchestrated the disappearance of my dear business partner solely for the purpose of stealing his child?"

Alex gave a single bow of his head. "Exactly."

Burns tented his fingers, ever so slightly amused by how similar it was to the position Alex had taken. "I see. And what did such an investigation uncover, if I may ask?"

Alex didn't move. "Mister Burns, if I'd found evidence against you, please believe me when I say I'd never be sitting across from you discussing any of this. I'd have made sure there was no way you'd ever see Waylon Jr."

Burns stiffened slightly, and hoped it didn't show.

Alex continued. "That boy is like my son. He grew up with my children, ate at my table, under my roof. If I thought there was anything less than straightforward about your godparent role, believe me I'd find a way to keep you from my nephew."

"Now," Alex added, "I don't claim to know anything about you, though I have my suspicions. I'm not going to fight against your rights to see Waylon Jr, but I am going to leave that solely to the discretion of his mother." Alex unfolded his hands. "I understand there is some enmity between you two. I don't care what it is. I'm not going to take sides. That's not my job." He paused and looked at the envelope in his hands. "My job is to make sure Waylon's wishes are carried out and look out for my family. Whatever happens beyond that," he held up his hands, "I'm not getting involved with."

He slid the envelope across the table.

"Here is your copy of the will."

Burns took the envelope, but didn't open it.

"Thank you, Mister Orfield," he said, formally. He took a sip of his tea. "Is there anything else I need to be aware of?"

Alex looked like he was debating something in his head. He reached a conclusion. "Yes. There is a memorial service for Wally this coming Tuesday. It'll be held at the First Church of Springfield, with a graveside service that afternoon."

Burns raised his head, mildly nervous. "Graveside?"

Alex shrugged. "Body or no body, there needs to be a place for the family. It was Roberta's wishes. A place for grieving, and remembrance."

Burns nodded. It was a sentiment he could understand, though the idea that Roberta would want such a thing never entered into his head.

Alex stood. "The memorial at the church is a closed service, family only. But the one at the cemetery is open." He paused as if considering his words. "I thought you'd want to know," Alex concluded thoughtfully.

Burns rose and extended a hand. "I appreciate you informing me of this, Mister Orfield."

Alex grasped Burns' hand in a purely professional handshake. "It's a requirement of the role, nothing more. Good day, Mister Burns." He tipped his hat, and left, ushered out by one of the household staff.

Burns sat down and ran a hand through his thin hair. The ice had almost completely melted in his tea, diluting it down to a pale amber. He took a sip, found the taste lacking. He held the glass to Johan. "Exchange this; bring me my planner and pen."

Johan gave a slight bow at the waist, took the glass, and disappeared.

Alone, Burns allowed himself the luxury of emotion. He took a deep breath, and opened the envelope. Smithers' will was not new to him, but he had no idea the family had been pushing to have Smithers declared legally dead. He supposed it had been enough time. Roberta had remarried, he knew that much. Some muscle-head ex-military type, Burns believed, though he wasn't completely sure. He couldn't even remember the man's name. It didn't matter to him.

He read, and reread the passage about young Waylon Jr. He wanted, desperately, to see the child. The boy would be, what, about ten years old now? The last time he'd had occasion to speak to Waylon Jr. was easily two years ago when Johan caught the child sneaking about the grounds.

How surprised he'd been when Johan interrupted his evening solitude to announce a "young Master Smithers" was there to see him.

The boy had looked scared, but otherwise unharmed. That was good. Burns had initially worried he might've been roughed up by the hounds. It was standard procedure to let them loose on the grounds at night. He was glad Johan had found the lad first.

Young Waylon Jr seemed well enough, but a bit jumpy, especially around Johan. Burns knew something of the child's stepfather: a man who believed boys needed to be tough and aggressive. Burns found that quite unacceptable. Oh, he was all for control, but his method was a subtle, cultivated dominance. The boy's stepfather had all the subtleness of a baseball bat, and was probably about as sharp. Burns scoffed.

Waylon Jr. was a sensitive child, gentle and Burns could tell the lad was intrigued by artistic beauty. The way the child's eyes had been drawn to the paintings in the great hall shown that ever so clearly.

Once he knew he wasn't going to be in trouble, young Waylon Jr. started gazing at the various pieces of artwork around him. Burns could tell it wasn't the ostentatious displays of wealth that captivated the lad; no. The child appreciated oil paintings on the walls for the imagery and technique.

Burns felt his chest tighten. The boy's genius would wilt under a brute like his stepfather.

Burns would've happily let the child stay longer, but he knew the boy's mother would bring the wrath of heaven herself is she found her son at Burns Manor. It wasn't worth trying to fight with her. There were some battles he knew he couldn't win.

Burns hadn't taken much time to speak with the boy. Just enough to make sure the lad was okay, and let him have a drink of milk, before reluctantly instructing Johan to load the child and his bicycle into the car and bring them home.

Burns turned the letter Alex had given him over in his hands, thinking. Perhaps it was time to settle things with Roberta.

Johan returned with a fresh glass of iced tea, as well as the requested day planner and a fountain pen. Burns wrote down the date of the memorial for Tuesday. Would he go? He wasn't sure, but somehow he felt it would be right. Perhaps it would give him a chance to speak to Roberta Smithers civilly.


	22. Deleted Scene 2: Burns and Roberta talk

**_Author's Notes:_**

 _Deleted Scene: Burns and Smithers' mother have a graveside chat by Waylon Sr.'s memorial._

 _More of the past, here. It didn't make the cut because, much as I liked Roberta as a character, she is, simply put, not an element that moves the story along. This scene, I think, shows Roberta as being one of the few people who is not impressed by Burns. Ultimately though, it was cut because I could leave off with a few sentences implying the exact same concepts as shown here._

 _Less can very often be more._

* * *

"I want to let you know, Mrs. Smithers, that I am not going to try and take your son from you. I'm not going to force you to let me see him, nor send one of my 'goons' to take him away." Burns chewed on his lip a moment. "I would like to see Waylon Jr., perhaps get to know him. He seems like a keenly introspective lad."

"He is," Roberta remarked, guardedly.

"Those traits, they aren't always appreciated in the culture of today."

Roberta folded her arms across her chest. "What are you implying?" She glanced to towards the car. Waylon Jr. and her husband were still waiting. She started to leave.

Burns held up his hands. "Mrs. Smithers, I am implying nothing." He took a deep breath, sized her up and relented. He bowed his head, dropping all pretense. "All I'm saying is this: your son is the last link I have to a very dear friend.

"We've never, eh, seen eye to eye, Roberta. I daresay there are a lot of unresolvable hostilities at both our quarters. I do regret how things came to be. But please, if you could find a way to forgive me for whatever offenses you feel I've committed, I would dearly like the chance to get to know my godson."

Burns lowered his head. He stared at the flowers, and tried not to think about the empty grave at their feet. If I could take all of this back, he thought silently, I would in a heartbeat.

Roberta said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him, scrutinizing him. She was always a bright one, he recalled. Damnably clever.

After what seemed like an eternity, Roberta spoke. "I should say no," she began. "I should tell you to go to Hell, and stay away from my son…"

(Burns steeled his nerves for her next words, afraid of what she might say.)

"… But that doesn't seem right somehow." She hesitated, looking out over the rows of gravestones. "I don't care about what you think or feel. I don't give a damn about you. But I have to remember what Waylon wanted. He saw you as a friend, and a mentor I think. I always hated it when he would start talking about you. Maybe I was jealous... I don't know. It doesn't seem important now." She continued to stare off towards the horizon. "The world has moved on."

Burns nodded, silently. _And it left a gaping hole behind_ , he added in his head.

Roberta continued. "I'll honor Waylon's request to let you see our son, but you must understand I'm doing this for him, not you. If it were up to me, you'd never see him, now or ever."

She looked over her shoulder, back towards her husband and son. The man was leaning against his car, looking decidedly impatient. He tapped his foot and glanced less-than-subtly at his wristwatch. Waylon Jr. sat in the car, head down.

"I have to go," Roberta said. "I'll keep in touch."

 _When?_ Burns wanted to cry out. He bit his tongue and nodded. "As you will, Mrs. Smithers."

"It's not 'Smithers' anymore. It's 'Weitz,'" she corrected him sharply.

"Mrs. Weitz, then. When might I expect to hear from you, then?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Whenever I feel like writing to you." She turned on her heel. "Good day, Mister Burns." Head high, she stalked off to the car and her waiting family.

 _Ah, Roberta_ , Burns thought to himself, _It will always be 'Smithers' to me._


	23. Deleted Scene 3: Burns' temper darkens

**_Author's Notes:_**

 _Here we begin to see Burns' descent from the man he was into the man we see on the show._

 _Interesting note, the name of the dog in this scene, Wildfell, is a direct reference to Anne Bronte's "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." In these flashbacks, there were several other hounds mentioned by name, many of them inspired by gothic literature._

 _Deleted because it simply wasn't relevant._

 _Johan, in case you're wondering was Burns' manservant during the Waylon Sr. era; in my headcanon._

* * *

Over the years, his solitary and reclusive habits had slowly eroded his more civil aspects; and replaced them with by a decidedly feral nature. He could still play the charming businessman at a social gathering, but in private, there was a decidedly malevolent aspect that had grown steadily stronger. His disposition, always mercurial had become harsher and more dangerous. What once might've been no more than an unpleasant prank on an unsuspecting intruder now took on a deadly tone.

Johan only remarked on this once, after Burns had fired several shots from his revolver at a traveling salesman.

 _Herr Burns, your haste to open fire on the man surprises me._

 _Bah, I've shot at those bothersome peddlers before, Johan._

 _Yes, Herr Burns. But this time, you aimed for his heart, not his heels._

Burns growled and circled the room again, his Doberman, Wildfell padding along at beside him. The mail would be up shortly. He wasn't expecting anything, but until it arrived, he knew there was no way he'd be able to concentrate on running his nuclear plant. Thankfully he had enough moronic drones to handle that. Aside from that incident around a decade ago, everything ran like clockwork.

 _No_ , he corrected himself. _The Incident_. It deserved proper noun status. He reached into his shirt collar and pulled out a thick white-gold ring he wore on a chain. Smithers had given it to him, a few weeks before the nuclear plant went online. A promise, a vow. Now, just a memory. He clenched the ring in his fist and ground his teeth together.


	24. Deleted Scene 4: Breakfast with Roberta

**_Author's Notes:_**

 _This is a long one. Initially, there was a lot more about Smithers' childhood, about him and his cousins (Robbie and Caroline), his interactions with his mother... and so on. This scene is one of the early ones, that starts to give the first insight into Smithers as a child; and his first long talk with Burns; under the watchful eye of his mother, of course. In the original version, Burns was Smithers' godfather._

 _Also, Smithers' mother remarried. Her new surname is Weitz. There was a lot more screentime be. tween young Smithers and his stepfather. It could all be summarized in flashbacks._

* * *

Young Waylon Smithers, _junior_ , sat next to his mother, poking his scrambled eggs with a folk. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes, a suit very similar to the one he'd worn at the memorial service. His curly hair was as combed as it could get.

He prodded the eggs some more, and made a face. "Mom," he asked, "can I have some bacon?"

Roberta shook her head. "You know how badly it gets stuck in your braces. Eat your sausage."

Waylon sighed. "Yes, mom."

The couple sat quietly for a minute. Roberta had barely touched her bacon and eggs. Waylon ate several more mouthfuls. "Mom?"

"Yes Waylon?"

"Why are we here?"

Roberta put a hand on his shoulder. "We're here to meet your godfather."

"I have a godfather?" Waylon asked wonderingly, mouth full of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, please," Roberta chided.

Waylon finished chewing, and swallowed obediently. "How come you I didn't know about him?"

"You weren't old enough before."

Waylon got the feeling his mother wasn't being honest with him. Sometimes, she would give answers that weren't really answers at all. It was frustrating. He didn't understand why grownups did that. It was clear they were lying. He sighed inwardly, and ate some more of his scrambled eggs.

The bell over the door jingled as someone entered. Waylon didn't look up, but he felt his mother shift on the seat. He raised his head.

It was him!

The 'Monster of Mammon' that his mother sometimes talked about when she'd had a bit too much to drink. Mister Burns! Behind him was his butler, or something. The tall and scary blond man.

Waylon watched the thin man pause, looking left and right. Burns' eyes locked on him and his mother. He gave a slight nod. Waylon Smithers lowered his eyes and tried to sink into his seat. He felt a mixture of awe and fear.

He stared intently at his shoes under the table, trying to make himself small.

He didn't realize that Burns had come up to the table until he saw Burns' shoes slide under the table across from his.

"Good morning, Mister Burns," his mother said carefully.

"Good morning, Mrs. Weitz."

Smithers still looked at his own feet, head down, unable to look at either adult.

"Good morning, Waylon," Burns said gently.

Smithers felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. "Waylon," she prompted, "say hello."

He raised his head, painfully aware of the braces he wore. He was glad, at least, he wasn't wearing his orthodontic headgear. The dentist said his teeth needed to come forward. He thought they were fine. He hated wearing the thing.

Smithers looked into the face of C. Montgomery Burns. The man's blue eyes, sized him up; face pleasant but unreadable. "Hello, Mister Burns," Smithers said quietly, fidgeting slightly. Waylon Smithers glanced quickly over at Johan, who stood slightly behind Burns. The tall man had a far-away look in his eyes, as if he were there, but not really watching any of them.

Smithers looked back to Burns, and realized the man was still looking at him. He blushed, and looked down.

Burns gave a slight laugh, only causing Smithers' face to redden more.

Roberta put an arm around her son's shoulders. "Waylon can be a bit shy," she explained.

Burns chuckled gently. "Ah, I can see that."

A waitress came over. Burns ordered some toast, and a cup of coffee.

"Waylon, do you know why Mister Burns is here?"

Smithers struggled for words. He shook his head.

"Mister Burns is your godfather."

Smithers' head popped up. "My godfather?"

His mother and Burns both nodded. "Yes."

"Oh," Smithers said quietly. He looked up, nervous but hopeful, glancing to his mother for reassurance. Roberta couldn't offer more than a nod. Smithers kicked his feet then looked back to Burns. "What does a godfather do?"

Burns steepled his fingers. "Grant wishes."

Smithers' eyes brightened.

"Really?"

"No, not really. That's just in fairy tales. It means I shall, eh, look after you; in a manner of speaking." He glanced over at Roberta. "As long as it doesn't conflict with your family obligations."

Young Smithers made a bit of a face. He looked as if he were rolling words around on his tongue carefully. At length, he decided against saying them. He swallowed them down. "Okay," he finally said.

Burns looked over at Roberta, and raised an eyebrow. She said nothing, but shifted slightly in her seat. Burns sighed inwardly and took a sip of his coffee. Even Johan seemed aware of the tension.

It was Roberta, of all people, who rescued the situation. "The role of a godparent differs in various groups," she began. "For some, it's a religious title; for others, it's an honorific. Your father valued Mister Burns' mentorship. He wanted you both to have a chance to meet each other. Without," she added, "you having to sneak out at night and give everyone a heart attack."

Smithers hung his head.

"I was fine," he muttered.

"No one here knew where you were. And this man keeps guard dogs on his property. What if they had attacked you? What if a stranger had picked you up?" Her eyes flicked over Burns. "I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to my loved ones."

Smithers couldn't help but pick up on the his mother's tone. There was no fondness for Burns.

"Quite so. Which is why, young Waylon, I want to make myself available to you. As you grow, you will undoubtably encounter hardships of the youth these days. I would like to make myself available to you, in my role, as a guardian and mentor."

Burns paused and chewed on his thumbnail absentmindedly. "I don't want you to feel like I am a stranger in your life. With your mother's permission, you are welcome to visit me. I, like your mother, have nothing but the desire to see you meet your full potential." Burns held out his hands. "I respect the self-made young man of today. Your father was a great man, some might say a master of his domain," he gestured to Roberta, "and your mother has formidable mind all her own. I daresay you, lad, have been born into potential."

Potential? No one had ever told Smithers that before. A shy boy, with quiet hobbies and a metal brace around his head? At best he was teased. At worst, down-right bullied. His stepfather never had much to say, aside from the disparaging remark now and then about the boy's lack of aggressive masculinity. To be honest, there wasn't much encouraging young Smithers.

Smithers stuttered, but couldn't seem to find words.

Burns pushed himself out of the booth and stood up. "Think about it," he said firmly. "I shan't pressure you, but know that you're not an unwelcome guest at Burns Manor." Burns gave Roberta a slight bow. "Mrs. Weitz, Mister Smithers… Good Day." With that, he turned; the tall manservant falling into step behind him.

Young Waylon Smithers watched them go, turning to peer out the window. His mother followed his gaze. The two men got into a sleek car, Johan sliding into the driver's seat, and drove off.

"Mom?" Waylon began quietly.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Do you think it's true what he said? About me having potential?"

"I think," Roberta began carefully, "that potential is as much a matter of choice as it is anything inborn."

"Was what he said about dad true?"

"What, that he was a great man?"

Waylon nodded.

Roberta didn't answer right away, and Waylon wondered if he'd gone too far again.

Waylon noticed early on that his mother would get a far-away look in her eyes whenever he brought up his father. It was a topic that she generally would not discuss with him. She said once when he was much younger " _all happy memories become sad ones if they live long enough."_ That had been back when he was still living with his aunt and uncle. His mother had been in a hospital for a while, because, they said, she was sad. She didn't talk about that time. He didn't ask either. It made him very uncomfortable to think about.

If talking about his father wasn't appreciated, discussing the time he'd lived with Charlotte and Alex was truly verboten.

Roberta stirred added another packet of sugar to her coffee and looked out the window.

"Your father was a brilliant man. A genius some might say. But sometimes genius isn't enough."

"That's why he left us," Waylon muttered quietly.

Roberta put an arm around him, drawing him close. She finished her coffee. "Are you finished?" she asked, gesturing to Waylon's plate. The boy nodded. She fished some money from her purse and left it on the table.

Guiding Waylon, they left the diner. It was noon, full sunlight, the air still and humid. It would be a warm walk home. Waylon unbuttoned his church jacket, and slipped it off. He hung it over his shoulder. He reached up and took his mother's hand. He knew he should feel silly at his age, holding hands with his mother. Holding hands didn't bother him. He might feel a bit ashamed by his _lack_ of embarrassment, but that was different.

They walked slowly, the muggy air making everything feel sleepy.

Waylon wasn't expecting his mother to discuss the topic of his father further. He had resigned himself to a silent trek home. Often, after bringing up his father, his mother would be very silent for a while.

He was astonished when she continued the topic.

"No one knows what happened to your father. He went to work one day, and never came home. Your aunt and uncle got a call that night from Mister Burns. Your father was no longer at the plant, his car was gone too… But you were there."

"I was at the nuclear plant?"

"You were."

"Why?"

She sighed. "Waylon, you know why."

He kicked a pebble. "No," he replied petulantly. He knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"I was in the hospital, getting… treatment. Sometimes Uncle Alex and Aunt Charlotte would babysit you, but sometimes they couldn't. So your father would bring you to work with him. That way, he could take care of you."

"Was Mister Burns there?"

"He was the co-owner of the nuclear plant, so most likely," his mother replied tightly.

Waylon gave her hand a gentle squeeze as they walked.

Roberta squeezed his hand back.

"He left you behind, Waylon." She paused. "He left _both_ of us behind."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He wanted a family more than anything, or so he always said. I always thought he was completely devoted to us. I wasn't… I wasn't in a good place then-"

"-The hospital?"

"No, before then. I wasn't in a good place… inside. It's hard to explain. I always wondered, after he left, if it was because of me."

Roberta stopped for a moment to dab her face with her handkerchief. Waylon wasn't sure if it was tears or sweat from the heat. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve, and received an admonition to use his handkerchief, not his shirt. He ran the cloth over his face obediently.

"I used to think," she resumed, "that he left because I wasn't feeling well. But that didn't make sense. Because even if he had been mad at me, he never would've left you behind. Then I thought maybe Mister Burns did something to your father. I was so convinced of that. I went to his house, and I yelled at him. I told him I knew that _he knew_ where your father was. I thought perhaps your father _was_ with Burns."

"But he wasn't there when you went there."

"No."

"How do you know he wasn't hiding?"

Roberta stopped, and drew Waylon to her. She knelt down, and looked him straight in the eye. "You know when you look into a person's eyes, how you can tell if they're lying?"

Waylon nodded. His mother was very good at that, especially when he was trying not to get in trouble.

"Well, I looked Mister Burns straight in the eye… he looked straight back into mine… and he told me ' _He's gone, Roberta; and he's never coming back_.'"

She stood up and brushed her skirt off. "He was telling the truth. I could see it. For the first time since I knew him, he was being honest with me." She took her handkerchief out of her pocket, and delicately blotted her face again. "Your father's disappearance upset him as much as it upset me. Sometimes though, I still blamed him. I still probably do."

"Does that mean I can't see him?"

"Oh, Waylon, baby, I'm not saying that. It's hard for me though. Mister Burns was the last person in Springfield who saw your father. I worry that something could happen to you too."

Waylon shifted his jacket nervously. "Do you think he did something to dad?"

Roberta sighed. "I want to blame him. It's easier to be angry. But no, I don't think he's responsible. I don't think he would've been so upset if he had been."

"And I was at the plant?"

"Mister Burns finally got ahold of your aunt and uncle. He sent his manservant over to their house around midnight. I was still in the hospital, so this is all what Charlotte told me. He said your father was gone, and had left you at the plant." She took a deep breath. "He said you could stay at the manor, he didn't seem to mind taking care of you; but Alex wasn't having any of it. Alex said it was proper that you were raised by family. Mister Burns couldn't dispute that. There was no way he could; especially considering that he and I do _not_ get along, and lord knows what I would've done if I thought he'd kidnapped you."

"But he didn't kidnap me. He was just taking care of me."

"True. Sometimes though, what you know and what you feel don't always line up."

"Oh," Waylon replied. He thought for a minute. His mind was full. Part of him resented the fact that he'd been moved from house to house. The other part wanted to feel glad so many people cared about him. Another part resented the fact that no one seemed to care when his stepfather berated him for being too soft. He was curious to get to know his godfather.

"When can I see Mister Burns?"

"Whenever you like, I suppose. Only if you want, of course."

Waylon nodded. "I think I will."

Roberta bowed her head thoughtfully. "We can make arrangements for that."

"I like it when you talk to me like this," he said suddenly.

"Like what," Roberta asked, genuinely curious.

Waylon glanced up at the tree branches leafed out over the sidewalk. "Like I'm a grownup," he announced decisively.

They walked on the short remaining distance in silence, Waylon's hand still nestled in his mother's.


	25. Deleted Scene 5: A boy at Burns Manor

**_Author's Note:_**

 _This was Smithers' first to Burns Manor as an official guest. Burns gives Smithers a tour of the plant, and we start to see some of Smithers' habits, like ending dang near every sentence with "sir" emerge. Fans of the Simpsons will also remember Smithers kind of has a thing for cowboys, and the western theme. He is an enthusiastic square-dancer. In one Deleted Scene that won't be shown here, Burns took young Smithers to a rodeo._

 _Burns also buys Smithers a horse, though he acts as if that horse has always been at the stables. In many of these flashbacks, the reader had a chance to see Burns' character emerge, and realize how much he actually does for Smithers behind the scenes._

* * *

Waylon Smithers pedaled his bicycle up to the gates of Burns Manor. He'd been here once before. He'd planned to sneak in and go exploring, but was quickly found and caught by the manservant, Johan.

From the way Johan had acted, Smithers was sure he'd get in all manner of trouble. Instead, he'd simply been brought before Mister Burns. Instead of demanding to know what he was doing there, Burns had asked, surprisingly normally, does your mother know you're here?

Smithers shook his head in confusion. All the things to ask, and that was what he was most concerned about? Then Burns had given him a snack, and sent him home. Simple as that.

Still, Smithers felt his heart pounding in his chest. It was one thing to try and sneak in unnoticed. It was another to ring the front bell.

He stopped by the call box built into the gate post and pushed the button marked 'call.' There was a ringing tone, then a click. "Yes," came Johan's softly accented voice through the speaker.

"It's me, Waylon Smithers. I'm here to see Mister Burns."

The callbox buzzed, and the gate silently swung open. Smithers went in, and the gates closed noiselessly behind.

If Burns Manor had looked large at night, the afternoon sun showed off the true scale of the place. Set atop Mammon Hill, Burns Manor was a monumental structure; probably the largest Smithers had ever seen. The driveway Smithers was biking up came in a half-circle, with the mid-point leveled off in front of the main entrance. The driveway then continued its gentle arc, connecting the East and West gates in the front wall.

The building itself had at least two wings that Smithers could see. The roof over the front entry way was supported by six massive columns. At the top of the manor was an multi-windowed dome, nearly doubling the height of the building.

Smithers coasted to a stop at the bottom of the flight of steps leading to the front door. He glanced around nervously. He took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and started up. Before he reached the top, the doors opened, and Burns stepped out, followed by Johan.

"Waylon, my boy, so nice of you to come and visit."

"Thank you," Smithers replied, "Thank you, sir," he corrected himself.

Johan caught Smithers' eye, and gave a nod of approval. He loped down the front steps to retrieve Smithers' bike. Effortlessly, he slung it over his shoulder, and brought it up to the top of the stairs.

Burns waited until Johan was back. "So, I'm sure you're thirsty from the ride over. Whatever you want to eat or drink, let Johan know, and you may have it."

"Uh, may I have a glass of water, please?" he asked, looking at Burns.

"Absolutely." Burns did nothing.

 _Oh_ , thought Smithers. He turned to Johan. "May I have a glass of water?"

Johan nodded once. "Come with me," he said. "I will show you the kitchens."

Smithers glanced over at Burns, who made a go on gesture with his hand. Smithers padded behind Johan, expecting to see the same kitchen he'd been in once before the night Johan caught him on the grounds. Instead, they didn't go down any stairs to the lower levels.

Johan lead him through an immense formal dining hall, and through a set of swinging doors, into the main kitchens. It was nothing like the servants' kitchen Smithers had been hauled into before. Everything was gleaming steel and cast iron. The stove itself was a huge wood burning, cast iron affair.

Johan grabbed a glass from a cupboard, and filled it from the faucet. He handed it to Smithers, then lead the boy to a walk-in freezer. He opened the latch, took a small pick and hammer, and chipped a few flakes of ice off a large clear block. He deftly put the ice flakes into Smithers' glass, and shut the door.

"Thank you," Smithers said, taking a long sip.

He took a moment to look around the kitchen. There were several other people there, a chef and two kitchenhands. They ignored him and Johan completely. Johan gestured to the door, and Smithers followed.

They joined Burns, who had made his way to a sunlit parlor at the southwest end of the manor. A small plate of cheese and fruit had been set out. Burns gestured to a chair. Smithers sat down. Johan continued to stand.

Smithers sipped his water, feeling terribly self-conscious of this orthodontic headgear. He wouldn't have to wear it much longer, only two more months. After that, he'd just be wearing braces. Not ideal, but better than headgear.

He took a piece of cheese and munched on it slowly.

Burns was watching him, his face unreadable.

Smithers smiled, hopefully.

Burns' expression softened ever so slightly. Encouraged, Smithers took a moment to look at the man, scrutinize him. His hair was thin, silver. Eyes a piercing blue. His features were hawk-like, aristocratic. He held his hands folded on the table before him. Smithers couldn't help but notice Burns' long, slender fingers, free of any adornment.

"Thank you for coming over, Waylon," he said regally. "I'm glad you chose to stop by. Please make yourself at home. I don't want you to feel like a stranger here."

"Your house is so big," Smithers said, glancing around the parlor at the paintings on the walls, the hand-carved Victorian furniture.

"It feels cozy once you get to know it," he replied.

Smithers nodded. "I bet if you played hide and seek here you could get lost for days."

Burns gave a shrug. "Weeks, even."

Smithers gulped.

"But don't worry, we won't let you get lost. Johan here knows the manor almost as well as I do. I'll give you the grand tour once you've finished your snack."

"Yes, please… sir!" Adding 'sir' was a bit of an afterthought, but Smithers wasn't sure how better to address the man. Throughout the small meal, Johan remained stoically at Burns' left shoulder, neither speaking nor moving. Smithers finished eating, noticing Burns barely touched a bite. He set his napkin on the table, and slid his plate away.

Burns' eyes flicked over Smithers. He stood, pushing his chair back, and made a _come here_ gesture to the boy. Smithers got up, stealing another glance at Johan as he walked over next to Burns. "I'll give you the tour. Johan will clean up."

Johan gave a half-bow. "Yes, Herr Burns."

* * *

Burns resisted the urge to put his hand on Smithers' shoulder as he led the boy through Burns Manor. He showed Smithers the various halls and galleries, the library and solarium. He didn't show Smithers the residential wing, or the servants' levels. "There's a laboratory in the basement," he explained as they headed out to the back veranda.

"Like a science lab?"

"Exactly like that."

"What do you do down there?"

Burns shrugged. "Not much these days, a few little hobbies here and there, little projects in horticulture," he twirled his hand in the air. "Nothing exciting."

They walked down the steps and into the formal gardens. The afternoon sun was still hot, but a cool breeze was blowing in from the west, making everything remarkably pleasant. Burns watched Smithers drag his hand over the tops of the flowers as they walked deeper into the estate grounds.

Burns gestured to the left. "Those are the stables. I keep a few thoroughbreds, though I don't race them. I used the have more, but I put them up in claims races. Horses are a fine hobby, but like many, they can grow stale with time." _That, and I have no one to ride with_ , he added in his own head. He stopped suddenly. A brilliant idea came to mind.

"Say, Waylon, would you ever be interested in learning to ride a horse?"

"Me… sir? I've never even seen one up close. Except in circuses and stuff."

Burns smiled. "We'll have to teach you. I was quite the equestrian back in my day."

Smithers eyes lit up. "Like a cowboy?"

Burns shrugged. "Dressage. And the occasional fox hunt."

Smithers wrinkled his face. "Dressage…"

"Do you even know what 'dressage' is?" Burns asked with a chuckle.

"It's…" the boy paused and blushed, "uhm… something to do with dresses."

Burns laughed aloud. "Heavens no, Waylon! Not at all. It's a form of horsemanship that requires a high degree of mastery of both horse and rider!" Burns raised his hand up. "Why, it elevates the sport of riding into one of art! The weightless floating trot, the rider atop his dancing horse!"

Smithers gave Burns a look that reminded him of the boy's father. A sort of sidelong smile that bordered on a playful smirk. "Dancing horses? I think I like cowboys better."

Burns laughed, and clapped Smithers on the shoulder. "Well, to each his own, my boy. We can't all be rodeo stars." Burns gestured to a building off to the right of the stables. "There's the kennels. I'd advise you not to go down that way. The hounds are not the most welcoming of visitors."

He guided Smithers away from the stables, down a path that looped back to the main gardens.

That evening, after Smithers had gone home, Burns summed Johan to him. "Get me a horse. Specifically a placid trailhorse. I want it procured and brought to the stables immediately. Now, go."

Johan nodded. "Yes, Herr Burns."

By the next afternoon, the stables at Burns Manor had one more resident: a buckskin quarter-horse mare. Burns gave Johan strict instructions to make sure the horsemaster, and all other staff, acted as if the buckskin had always been there. It would hardly do, Burns thought quietly, if Smithers knew he'd bought a horse specifically for him. No. Best the boy not know such things. It would hardly do to spoil the lad.


	26. Deleted Scene 6: Keith likes older men?

**_Author's Note:_**

 _A brief scene with a reference to Smithers' temporary beau, Keith._

 _There were originally a lot more scenes with Keith, but we're back to the "less is more" theory. And so, here's a snippet that didn't make it._

* * *

Smithers felt invigorated. He'd had a great time with Keith last night. While it was just a getting-to-know-you thing, he'd had a fun time. Keith was younger than he was by an appreciable amount, and Smithers found, unexpectedly, that he liked that.

There was something to say about being the so-called "older man." Being around Keith had made him feel in charge, and desirable. Neither were sensations he was particularly familiar with. For someone who was apparently gay-gone-straight, Keith had gotten surprisingly flirty as the night wore on. At one point he'd even gone so far as to refer to Smithers as "silver fox."

Smithers had laughed that off. "My hair started turning grey in my twenties. I'm not that old, really!"


	27. Deleted Scene 7: Antoine, Preston?

**_Author's Note:_**

 _A hint of shameless Antoine/Preston shipping. Deleted because, much as I like them, and imagining some sort of backstory, "Unfolding" was not a "Pantoine" ship. There were some good ones though. I thought they made quite an interesting odd couple._

 _Most of my conversations are written out, then the characters' actions described. This is -exactly!- as I had it penciled out in my notebook._

* * *

Smithers: "You're wearing that to annoy Preston...?"

Antoine: "Absolutely! Check out these toe-shoes." *wiggles toes proudly*

Smithers [makes a 'no-feet' face]: "Ug... Right. You think he'll notice?"

Antoine: "How could he not?"

Smithers: "So you -are- dressing up for him! And you -do- want him to notice you!"

Antoine: "Well... yeah! But only because 'Hawaiian shirt day' gets him just frothing at the mouth."

Smithers: "Keep telling yourself that's the only reason."

Antoine: "Hmph, I think I will. Don't you have some real work to go do now?"


	28. Deleted Scene 8: The Best One!

**_Author's Note:_**

 _After Burns and Smithers arived back in Springfield, there was a lot of shameless fluff. It was fun, and floofy, and I enjoyed writing it. Unfortunately, it didn't really enhance the story. I realized that letting the Readers imagine what (if anything) happened on the flight back, and what happened next was better than actually telling them what I saw happening._

 _The song they're playing, is called "Resonant Chamber" by Animusic._

 _So, this is the final deleted scene, a bit of pure fluff that takes place in Smithers' room at the manor. I included this here because I think Burns and Smithers playing the piano together is an utterly -adorable!- image._

* * *

Burns listened to the song through Smithers' earbuds. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I could play that." He sat down on the bench. "I'll need a second set of hands though," he add. Burns patted the spot next to him. "Come Smithers. How long has it been since we played a duet together?"

Smithers shook his head, remembering fondly. "Far too long, Monty. Far too long." He sat down next to Burns, side by side, and raised his hands. "Whenever you're ready, Monty."

Burns paused, hands poised above the keys. "Waylon, my dear, I've been ready for this moment for a lifetime." He gave Smithers a quick kiss on the cheek, bowed his head, and began to play.


End file.
